


As You Wish

by VaultBunny (Spinning_Hatter)



Series: As You Wish [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout 4
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Biting, Canon-Typical Violence, Charon doesn’t understand emotions, Cunnilingus, D/s themes, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fingering, Flashbacks, Ghoul, Ghoul Sex, I just wanted to write ghoul smut and now look at it, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Past Sexual Assault, Porn With Plot, Recreational Drug Use, References to Past Sexual Assault, Role Reversal (Under Order), Roughness, Semi-Clothed Sex, Spanking, Story keeps as close to canon timeline as possible - some creative liberties taken, Strong Language, Switching POV’S, Unconventional Use of Safe Words, alcohol use, canon-typical bigotry, cunnilingus on a desk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:35:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 39,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22936459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spinning_Hatter/pseuds/VaultBunny
Summary: “How about this: if I think you’ve gone too far, you have to stop the second I say...” Her hands braced themselves on his shoulders, lips caressing the remnants of his ears as she whispered a single word.It was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. However, with that word she was still in complete control. He could indulge in some of his more selfish desires without violating his contract, but he knew it was just another ploy to get her exactly what she wanted. For some reason, that just happened to be him.
Relationships: Charon (Fallout) & Female Lone Wanderer, Charon (Fallout)/Female Lone Wanderer, John Hancock & Female Sole Survivor, John Hancock/Female Sole Survivor
Series: As You Wish [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1648477
Comments: 50
Kudos: 141





	1. As You Wish

**Author's Note:**

> I know Fallout 3 is a bit of an older fandom but...this is where I started writing fanfiction and I wanted to dip my feet back into it. This fic is much different than what I usually write but I don't think it's a bad thing. I had a lot of fun writing this and have plans for expansion in the future, but this blew up and there was no way I could fit it all in a one-shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s some head-bopping in the beginning of this chapter because I seemed to have forgotten whose POV I was writing for a second. Completely missed it during my read through, sorry! It doesn’t happen for the rest of the fic though.

Charon knew that cocky little Smoothskin was testing him. 

Vivian Nelson was a hurricane of a woman—though she could barely be called such when they’d met what felt like a lifetime ago. She’d been barely 19 at the time, all creamy skin and bouncing golden curls. Her wide eyes would have brought any man to his knees over 200 years ago, but nowadays only served to scream at any passing waster to rape her, kill her, then fuck her again before her pristine body got too cold to provide any comfort. Over the years her pale flesh tanned under the unforgiving sun, a warm tone that made her eyes sharp in contrast, blemished with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and jagged scars slashed across the left side of her face from her brow to her lips. Her sugar and spice had soured to piss and vinegar while her soft body hardened with their constant traveling— no longer enviably plump but still retaining her curves in all the horribly right places.

Like that pert ass she had lifted in the air right this very moment. She leaned over Shrapnel’s table, the curve of her back pushing her denim-clad rear out for the entire Marketplace to ogle. He knew what she was doing. It was a game that started fairly early into their unorthodox relationship—not long after he parted ways with his former employer with a shower of lead and brain matter redecorating the bar. She’d still been young then, pure from the vault and naïve to the ways this world worked. A tiny, pale, thing that had grown even paler as she held his contract in her hands and stared at the gore splattered on her shoe with mounting horror. But, when he turned to face her there was no fear directed towards him.

_“You had to kill him,”_ she said. It wasn’t a question, more like she was accepting a truth that had been hard to swallow until just then. When he nodded, it seemed to cement it further in her mind that it was the right thing to do. _“If I ever do anything you disagree with, you can punish me too.”_

Charon had never intended to act on that liberty she gave him. She had asked him to protect her, to teach her how to survive out in the Wasteland, and he was content to do just that. It wasn’t until they were traversing the metro tunnels, the faint light of her Pipboy as their only illumination, that he lost all sense of himself. 

A feral had charged at them out from the darkness, teeth gnashing and nails clawing wildly through the air. Charon had barked for her to get behind him but the foolish girl lifted her pistol and took aim with shaking hands. The feral slashed her face before he was able to pull her back and pump its gut full of lead. He’d had to carry her out the rest of the way, treated her blood and tear-streaked face to the best of his ability but he knew immediately that it would scar her smooth skin. She had cried in his lap, clinging to the straps of his leather armor and seeming even smaller against him than she already was. The idea of her dying to something so easily avoidable sparked a rage inside his chest that he hadn’t recognized. She was so ignorant, nothing but a child in this world, and something in his brain clicked that she had to be taught like a child.

That was all it was meant to be: a lesson. Once her tears stopped, Charon lifted her and bent her over his lap. Her protests were cut short with the sharp crack of his palm against her backside. She screeched, face scarlet from the blood and the shame burning her cheeks. He brought his hand down again and again, until the sound that ripped itself from her throat was more encouraging than miserable and ice flushed through his veins. He lifted her off of him, planted her feet firmly on the ground, and fought against the rolling in his gut as he took in her heaving chest and parted lips. 

In his mind, that should have been the end of it. But of all the skills he tried to teach her to survive, her real talent ended up being manipulation. She started putting herself into danger more often, just enough to spark his ire but never enough to be considered suicidal. He’d unwittingly given her exactly what she wanted until one day, nearly a whole year into their partnership, he noticed her eagerly pressing herself against him, glancing over her shoulder to await the incoming blow. His hand hovered above the swell of her ass, his breath caught in his throat, and he realized with no small horror that he was just as eager as she was. He’d shoved her off his lap with a snarl and left the both of them wanting— but his mistress was not so easily discouraged. It was only a week later that she hatched her nefarious plot and dragged him deeper into the grave he had dug himself. 

_“I have an order for you, Charon.” She looked him square in the eyes as she spoke, visibly pleased when he provided her his full attention. “Whenever we’re home in Megaton, or in a place that we both consider safe, I want you to act freely. As long as it doesn’t endanger either of our lives, you can even boss me around.”_

_“I can’t agree to that,” he rejected outright. The very thought seemed to offend every molecule in his body. He was built to follow his contract, to be owned, not to give any orders more commanding than necessary to keep her alive._

_“What’s the harm?” When he scowled at her, she only grinned. “How about this: if I think you’ve gone too far, you have to stop the second I say...” she tapped her chin in thought, elongating the final syllable until her answer seemed to jolt through her like a lightning strike. She curled her index finger towards her body, beckoning him to lower his face down to her level. Her hands braced themselves on his shoulders, lips caressing the remnants of his ears as she whispered a single word._

_It was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. However, her technicality put him into a position that made it difficult to refuse again. With that word she was still in complete control. He could indulge in some of his more selfish desires without violating his contract, but he knew it was just another ploy to get her exactly what she wanted. For some reason, that just happened to be him._

_“Why?” he could only ask._

_“Because I like you.”_

Which brought them to now, nearly a decade later with Viv’s ass wiggling in the air, her come-hither lashes batting flirtatiously at the smoothskin vendor, and flashing a smile sweeter than snack cakes. As she bartered, she turned that smile his way and motioned him over with a tilt of her head that had her curls tumbling over her shoulder. He approached, taking stock of everyone else surrounding the stall. When Shrapnel turned away to retrieve a weapon that Viv had pointed to, Charon swatted her square on her denim-covered cheek. The noise of the Marketplace drowned out the crack of his hand against her jeans but the shock had the little tease standing ramrod straight with her hands folded obediently in front of her.

“Behave yourself,” he growled into her ear, enjoying perhaps a tad too much in the way she nodded and shuddered at his proximity. Oh yes, he had agreed to her terms and, yes, the transition had been a difficult one. He hadn’t known what to do with his newfound power at first, yet as the years went on their arrangement had developed into something far different than originally expected. Intimate seemed too weak of a word—too flowery and fanciful when their relationship usually offered bruises and blood.

He remained at least three steps behind her at all times, maintaining the role of bodyguard and hired gun. But Rivet City was one of their “Safe Zones” so he was free to act on his own as long as it didn’t endanger her in any way. He still tried to keep physical contact to a minimum—no matter how safe the city was, the condemning stares of its citizens could cause problems for her if he seemed overly “familiar”—but just a brush of his hand in the right place had her back at attention as her focus started to slip from the merchant holding out the heavily modified sniper rifle that had caught her eye.

“What do you think?” She asked him, her smile wicked. Charon examined the gun with a critical eye. She needed a more reliable weapon, preferably long range, after her trusty 10mm jammed more often than it shot. He’d taught her proper care and cleaning of her guns but there were some things one couldn’t avoid when it came to living in a nuclear wasteland. The rifle itself seemed sturdy enough and modded to all Hell to reduce kickback. The suppressor was worrisome as far as range was considered, but it’d muffle enough sound from whatever hiding spot she could sequester herself away in. 

Charon offered a hand and Shrapnel handed the gun over. He rested the stock against his shoulder and checked the scope. Calibrated, not in terrible shape but definitely salvaged goods, with a switch for night vision.

All in all, not a terrible choice. He set the gun back down on the counter, nodding once to Viv who was practically vibrating with excitement beside him. She grinned and leaned forward again, giving Shrapnel a nice eyeful of cleavage as she started to haggle. Charon took a few steps away and let the smoothskin work her magic. While most people in the major settlements were used to his shadow looming over her, they were easier for her to deal with when he was just out of sight and out of mind. His melted skin and milky eyes were enough to turn their stomachs, but also a haunting cautionary tale about what could happen to them if they were unlucky.

“850 caps,” Shrapnel said, holding out a hand expectantly. Vivian snorted, sitting back on her hip with the confidence of a deathclaw ready to pounce.

“This thing is dented to hell. Who says it can even shoot straight?” She motioned along the body of the weapon with an air of indifference, but Charon could see the wanting look in her eyes even from where he stood. “600.”

“You fucked in the head, Dollface?” Shrapnel spit the name like venom, crossing his arms across his chest. “This thing has more attachments than your fucking vibrator.”

Viv threw him a cheeky grin, eyes flashing over her shoulder to where Charon lit up a smoke by a support beam.

“I doubt it.”

Shrapnel spat a thick glob of saliva to the metal floor and curled his lip. He kept his eyes pointedly on her, content to ignore the hulking mass of ghoul several feet away.

“Tell ya what, 760 caps and I’ll throw in a box of ammo just to get you off my dick and back onto your zombie’s.”

Viv’s jaw clenched. She shucked off her backpack and dug inside for her bag of caps, tossing the dented aluminum onto the counter with a rude gesture. 

“Gimme my fucking gun.”

Shrapnel eyed the caps on the counter and slid them into a lockbox. He handed over the rifle and ammo with just as little ceremony. He didn’t even offer a “come again” as Viv secured her purchases and turned away. Charon watched her out of the corner of his eye, blowing a thick plume of smoke out from his nasal cavity. He fell into step beside her and offered the cigarette wordlessly. 

It tasted bitter on her tongue. Sour and off in the way that only wasteland cigs could taste. She took a deep drag with a grimace and handed it back, waving a hand in front of her face to help the smoke dissipate before it could sting her eyes.

“Think we can make it before sundown?” She asked, though she didn’t feel hopeful as she looked at the time on her pipboy. Charon took another drag, almost pulling it all the way down to the filter.

“You won’t get to see him until the morning even if we did.”

“Guess not. Let’s go to the Weatherly.”

Charon snorted out smoke and tossed the used butt to the ground. He followed her up the stairs and through the corridors of the ancient aircraft carrier that housed the city until they reached the hotel. Viv still seemed to be steaming— whether it was over Shrapnel’s comment or the delay in their trip, he couldn’t say— but once they reached the reception desk she put on a million caps smile and greeted the proprietor.

Vera Weatherly always seemed happy to see them— or just Viv, more likely. To her credit, she offered Charon a welcoming smile and slid over the key to their room once the caps were exchanged. She tended to stare at the both of them with macabre fascination, mostly harmless and it was better than outward revulsion and refusal of service. They’d spent many a night sleeping under the stars thanks to inns refusing to house them for the night, and as far as rented rooms went, any Waster would be hard pressed to find one better than the Weatherly.

Inside their private room, Viv dumped her pack at the foot of the spacious bed and threw herself on top of the sheets. Charon scooped up her bag to set it with his own on the table and unstrapped his shotgun from his back.

“We gotta get one of these,” she sighed, pulling a pillow to her face.

“How would you get it home?” He unbuckled his armor and set it next to his gun.

“A gentleman would offer to carry it for me, y’know.”

Charon snorted and took two long strides over to the bed.

“Too bad neither of us are gentlemen.”

Viv’s yelp bounced off the metal walls as Charon gripped her ankles and yanked her to the edge of the mattress. He ignored her indignant protests and untied her boots, dropping them to the ground where their dust could no longer add more stains to the off-white sheets. When he finished, he kicked off his own boots and let her pull him into bed beside her. The mattress was almost half the size of their entire bedroom back in Megaton and much more comfortable than the two twin-sized beds they’d squished together. It’d be nice to actually have some wiggle room while they slept in the comfort of their own home, though he doubted the bed would even fit through their front door.

“You sleeping in that?” He motioned to the leather armor still cocooning her body. Viv shook her head and peeled the layers off, tossing them across the room without any prior thought. She’d tear the room apart in the morning looking for all of it, but his screaming muscles protested the mere thought of leaving the bed and picking up after her. Once she was stripped to nothing but her undershirt and shorts, she nestled herself against his side.

“Do you think he’ll be upset that we’re late?” She asked, wide eyed and innocent like the fresh-faced vaultie he met in Underworld. Charon secured an arm around her waist, cushioning his head with the other.

“I don’t think he knows either way.” At her stricken expression, he could only grimace.

“I...guess not.” She sighed and rested her head against his shoulder. Her fingers trailed along the cotton of his t-shirt, tracing the hard lines of muscle absently. “Thanks for coming with me.”

Even if he hadn’t wanted to or cared nothing for her or her desires, wherever his contract went, he couldn’t be far behind. Still, he nodded. It meant a lot to her and sometimes that mattered more than the finer details.

Her hand continued to trail down his shirt. It smoothed across his pectorals, brushed where his nipples used to be, and slowly wandered down his abs. The sensation was dull. It was hard enough to feel her touch through the scar tissue as it was, but the shirt added an extra hurdle to scramble over. It never deterred her, even back when he wished it did, and she always put a little extra pressure behind her groping just to make sure he could feel it.

“Well, now that the mushy shit is out of the way,” she grinned, “wanna fool around?”

Charon wheezed a sick sound— before his ghoulification it may have been a laugh. His milky eyes turned on her, challenging.

“You want to get us kicked out of here?” He asked, though his hand already slipped down her waist to cup her ass.

“I can be quie—AH!” The flat of his palm struck her through her thin shorts. She flushed and jabbed a finger into his chest with a curled lip. “That doesn’t fucking count and you know it!”

His death-rattle laugh filled her ears as he rolled on top of her, covering her completely with a solid wall of muscle. He looked her over slowly, letting her limbs twitch in anticipation beneath him.

“If you’re loud, I’m going to stop,” he warned.

Viv swallowed thickly and nodded. Her small hands reached up and cupped his jaw, leading his face down to her level so she could kiss him. He went willingly, molding what was left of his lips to hers.

It was too soft. Too sweet and innocent to be the kiss of the woman who skull-fucked an Enclave Colonel with her pistol before pulling the trigger deep inside his throat. Charon bit down sharply on her lower lip and snaked his tongue inside her mouth. The copper taste of her blood seeped between their kiss and he painted her tongue with it, plundered her mouth until sweet Vivian was gone and Viv was back, awakened by blood and lust.

There was no time to be loving in the Wastes. He had trained, beaten, and fucked all the sweetness that he could out of her. There was still a part of Vivian, the nurse from Vault 101, left inside her. The gentle girl who only wanted to lay with him and feel his warmth some nights, who thanked him for following her and tended to his wounds with soft touches he could barely feel, and even softer kisses whenever she could sneak them in. If he did care for her, if he could even care for anything, he cared for her alive and invulnerable. He wanted her as Viv—baptized in blood and fiercer than anything that could stand in her way.

If she really hated it, she only had to say one word to make him stop.

Charon hooked his arm around her waist and pulled her upright, tearing her tank top over her head and tossing it to the floor. Her nails bit into the fabric of his shirt, tugging insistently but Charon smacked her hands away to rip it off himself. He pinned her back against the mattress and raked his teeth along her throat. She whimpered when he gripped her breast, squeezed and pinched her nipple until she couldn’t contain a deep moan and rocked her hips against his thigh.

“Shut the fuck up, Smoothskin,” Charon warned.

“That wasn’t loud,” she hissed through her teeth, grinding herself against his leg again. Charon grunted and lifted her by the hips. Her shorts were ripped down her thighs and tossed to another forgotten corner of the room for her to search for later. Charon’s hand squeezed her ass possessively before aiming another sharp swat against her. 

“Don’t make me tell you again.”

Viv bit her lip. Her eyes screwed shut when he plunged his fingers between her thighs. Leather skin scraped against velvet, a sick marriage of texture that should have had her recoiling from his touch in disgust rather than desperately trying to fuck herself on his fingers.

_You fucked in the head, Dollface?_

Shrapnel had been right. There was no doubt that Viv was absolutely fucked in the head. From the day they left Underworld, he watched the Capital Wasteland rape her of that spark of innocence. Every bullet that grazed her skin, every dance of bowie-knife-tango that left her scarred inside and out had her straddling her breaking point. He’d done his best to keep her from crossing that line, tried to teach her to learn from the horrors she experienced rather than fall victim to them. Sometimes, he wondered if he’d only succeeded in fucking her up more...but she had fucked him too.

_“Why the hell do you want to keep doing this?” Charon grumbled and watched her kneel in front of where he sat on their faded pre-war sofa. It seemed like a lifetime since she sauntered up to him, holding up his contract with a smile that said “I’m about to fuck up your life in the best possible way.” As he watched her morph from a terrified Vaultie to the driving force behind taking out the Enclave and starting the purifier, he developed no small amount of respect for her. She’d adapted as well as she could to the world outside the Vault, had many admirers both above and below ground._

_Still, she came to him._

_“Because I’m horny?” She laughed and unzipped his pants._

_“I meant with me.”_

_“I like you.”_

_Charon scowled as she pulled his half-hard dick from his pants and stroked him. His teeth bared and he snarled as she took him into her hot mouth and bobbed her head halfway down his length._

_“That’s not enough,” he bit out. The flesh around his nasal cavity flared when she pulled him out and grinned._

_“Why? You don’t like me back?” Her smile didn’t falter, even as he glowered at her and remained silent. “Is it that horrible to touch me?”_

_“Shouldn’t I ask you that?” He spat._

_“I’m a nurse and the daughter of a doctor,” She scoffed and stroked her palm along his shaft, “I’d seen worse than you in my dad’s books by the time I was seven.”_

_Viv went to suck him off again but Charon gripped her hair and shoved her away. She caught herself on her hands before her head could hit the floor. She couldn’t even manage to look pissed off at him, only clicked her tongue and reached into her boot to pull out the knife he gave her as a backup defense. She flipped it casually before she shoved it into his palm and grabbed his wrist in both of her hands. She made him raise the edge of the blade just beneath her jaw as those baby-blue eyes grew dark and daring despite the sweet smile she plastered on her lips._

_“There are three layers of skin,” she informed him, pushing his hand to dig the knife deeper into her flesh, “the first layer is the epidermis—my ‘smooth skin,’ if you will.” Crimson started to well up beneath the knife’s edge as she spoke. “The next layer is the dermis, where you find hair follicles and sweat glands. This is the part of the skin you see on most ghouls, generally with peeks here and there to the third layer: the hypodermis. That’s where insulating fat is found and also where fibrous tissue connects your skin to muscle and bone.” Her fingers danced along the back of his hand, stroking the exposed ridges of his metacarpals fondly as though they were as soft as her own skin. “If it bothers you so much, go ahead and peel off my skin. Smash the cartilage of my nose, slice off my ears...carve me up and you’ll see that we’re exactly the same underneath.”_

_Charon yanked the knife away from her face and stabbed it into the armrest. His gut rolled as he watched a trail of her blood pearl at her chin and drip between her breasts._

_But, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so hard._

Viv arched up as another thick finger delved inside her, curling and teasing along her walls. She whimpered, canting her hips as her breaths reduced to sharp gasps against the remnants of his ear. He bent down to lathe biting kisses along the slope of her neck. 

In another life he might have been gentle with her. He may have held her close, kissed her as sweetly as she did whenever she was feeling soft. He might have made love to her, slowly and deeply as though they had all the time in the world.

In another life, she might have even enjoyed it.

Viv wrapped her arms around his neck as he continued pleasuring her, plunging his digits in and out of her slick heat in a mockery of what had yet to come as his thumb swirled across that bundle of nerves that left her head spinning. Her lip went raw and swollen between her teeth, bleeding from his own bite and her desperate attempts to keep quiet. She would break eventually, her voice unleashing from her bruising throat to ricochet off the walls of their rented room—it was all part of the game. She got off on disobeying him and suffering the consequences, had a burning need to be punished. Part of him wondered if it was some sort of Survivor’s Guilt, but she had craved his ire long before Project Purity—long before she ever whispered those heartfelt _I like you’_ s against his exposed tendons. 

When she tightened around him, Charon pulled away. Those full, bloody, lips parted but she couldn’t manage a single complaint as he held up his slick-coated hand to her mouth. She sucked his fingers greedily, tongue sliding between them and lapping at all traces of herself.

The sight almost ripped a moan out of him, but he bit it back and reached for his fly. The tent in his pants had been bordering uncomfortable for several minutes, it was a relief to pull his erection free and nestle himself between her thighs.

“ _Hey!_ ” Charon yanked his hand back with a scowl, fingers throbbing from the clamp of her teeth around them. She looked up at him with narrowed eyes, tongue sweeping across the split on her lower lip.

“At least kiss me when you do it,” she said, looking more petulant than angry. “Don’t fuck me with your fingers down my throat. I’m not a whore.”

Charon snorted and bared his teeth in a horrifying grin.

“Is that an order?”

“Yes.”

“As you wish.” 

His mangled lips crashed against hers, stealing away her scream as he sheathed himself completely inside her. She arched into him, thighs wrapping around his hips and pulling him flush against her. He let her hold him still for a beat— their size difference wasn’t limited to height alone and it still took her a few moments to adjust.

Charon deepened their kiss. His tongue swept inside, tasting of copper and sour from cigarettes. He waited until her hips started to grind against him, until she moaned softly into his mouth, before he pulled nearly all the way out of her and snapped his hips forward. Viv’s head fell back and she cried out, nails stinging his shoulders as he set a brutal pace that she struggled to keep.

“ _Charon_!” She spoke his name like a plea, over and over as she pulled him deeper inside. Anyone in the neighboring rooms were sure to have heard her, part of him wondered if she liked the idea of someone listening in—if she took some sort of pleasure in people knowing just what he was doing to her. She moaned and keened until she went breathless, gasping for air as she tightened and came around him.

He fucked her straight through it, keeping his pace as she came undone.

“Again,” he growled. He was teetering precariously over the edge but needed her to give him that extra push. 

Viv’s voice went raw, tears welling up behind her lashes, and she pushed her hips up to meet his still demanding thrusts. Charon wrapped her hair around his hand and yanked her head back so he could trace the bruises blooming on her neck with his tongue, biting a particularly large reddening mark as his hips lost their rhythm. Her breath hitched and she gripped him desperately as he bullied another orgasm out of her. Her pleasured cries reverberated through the room before he finally spilled himself deep inside with a low growl.

There was always that lull— that brief period where he hovered over her, nothing more than a man and a woman that didn’t have a broken world outside their door. There was no contract tying them together, only their bodies connected with sweat cooling on her skin as she peppered kisses across his mangled face. 

Viv whimpered when he pulled out of her, hands refusing to leave his skin even as he rolled off of her. Charon carefully zipped himself back into his pants and let her run her hands along his chest and abs, coaxing him back down to her level for that soft kiss he just couldn’t knock out of her.

“I like you,” she cooed against his lips.

“I know.” 

* * *

  
  


They hadn’t even made it to the bridge before Viv started to curse under her breath. With a crooked gait and a dull throbbing between her thighs, she tried to match Charon’s stride through the halls. He offered no sympathy, only a fiendish smirk whenever she glared at him.

If she asked him to slow down now, he wouldn’t touch her for weeks. She was already on thin fucking ice judging by the horrified and disgusted stares that had been cast their way that morning, no doubt unappreciative of the fact that they’d played unintentional voyeur throughout the night. Charon hadn’t made any mention of retribution for breaking his rule, but Viv knew it would be cruel and unusual and the thought had left her both anxious and excited for their next moment alone.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled, air turning electric as though someone were trying to drill holes in the back of her skull by sheer force of will. Viv glanced over her shoulder, hand reaching for her holster in anticipation, but the hallway was empty. Probably just another passerby clutching their metaphorical pearls at the sight of the two of them together. She’d heard more than her fair share of ‘ _necrophiliac_ ’ hidden behind feigned coughs and sideways glances, and while her so-called relationship with Charon wasn’t exactly news to most of the settlements they frequented, people seemed content to act appalled as though they’d never heard of such an offense before.

Maybe what they needed was some good old-fashioned exposure therapy.

How angry would she have to make him? What buttons could she press to annoy Charon to the point where he’d throw her down in the middle of the marketplace, rip her pants to her knees, and fuck her raw in front of all the scandalized onlookers?

“Stop it,” Charon groused, guiding her up the stairs with his hand against her back.

“I didn’t do anything!” She stumbled over the first step, but regained her composure quickly and scurried the rest of the way up to the main deck. Charon took the steps two-by-two, his frown never leaving his face.

“You have that look.” He opened the door out to the bridge and ushered her through. 

“ _Ohh_ , so I have a look?”

“When you’re thinking about something that’s going to piss me off.” Charon rolled his eyes, but Viv saw the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. 

He slowed his pace once they exited the city, falling into step behind her. Out in the wastes, they may as well be strangers. There were no barely-there smiles when she playfully needled him, no groping or enticing threats growled into her ears from behind. He’d made it clear from the start that it was too dangerous to play into her “game” while they travelled. The rotting carcass of the old world was crawling with scavengers, desperate to rend the flesh from her bones and quench their thirst with her blood and bile. 

When the Jefferson Memorial came into view through the barren trees, the battered dome roof pressed against the smoggy sky like a lurking Behemoth, her steps began to falter. She stopped in the middle of the cracked road, staring up at the building as though it had come to devour her. Viv already accepted that coming back would always be a trial. No matter how much time passed, the building prodded old wounds that she feared would never heal. The vision of her father, gasping for breath, clawing at the window as he begged her to run.

_“Go...I love you...”_

Her stomach rose to her throat but she swallowed it down. The last words he spoke to her were forever tainted. Her body rejected even reading the phrase now, violently, as though trying to expel a poison with no cure. She’d witnessed countless atrocities since leaving Vault 101. Settlements burned by Raiders, children’s corpses piled into ditches, the naked remnants of wasters foolish enough to travel alone, yet none of them haunted her the same way as James Nelson slapping his palms against the glass, flesh burning and peeling away from his face. All he’d ever wanted was a better life for her— for the rest of humanity— and he’d shouldered her with that responsibility with a blistering smile and tears in his eyes (though, the more she thought about it, the more it looked like his eyes had been melting).

Charon’s hand rested on the small of her back, the most that he was willing to touch her out in the open. It was as encouraging as he was capable of being, she supposed, but even if he were to wax poetic like the lovers in those shitty pre-war novels she’d stumbled upon, it couldn’t compare to his hand warming her skin. 

She stepped forward and he followed.

They approach the large tree in the courtyard. Beneath it was a concrete slab that may have been part of a wall at some point, etched with the names of those that gave their life during the battle for the purifier. At the top of the list was James Nelson.

Viv sat down in front of the marker, shifting her bag off to rest beside her. She opened it up and pulled out a half-empty bottle of scotch.

“I’ll be just a minute,” she said.

Charon nodded and walked off the platform without a word, leaving her in peace. She unscrewed the bottle and poured some out into the dirt before taking a swig for herself. Her father’s body had been cremated with the rest, the ashes scattered around the tree. It was odd to think that the strong shoulders she had ridden on as a child were mixed with the dirt beneath her feet. “Unsettling” was, perhaps, a better way to describe it. 

“Hey Dad,” she said. It felt weird to try to talk to him at first, but now she could pretend he was sitting next to her, sharing a drink like they never had the chance to, lending his ear to all her stories. “This place is still a shithole, but there’s hardly a major settlement around that doesn’t have a regular supply of clean water, thanks to you. Charon and I have been making most of our caps guarding the shipments, so we’re doing pretty well for ourselves.”

Viv took another drink and sighed. 

“We’re still in negotiations for Underworld. Quinn is a good guy, easy to work with, but these Brotherhood _fucks_ —” she winced, “sorry. I just meant...Ever since Maxson took over, they’ve been acting like a gang of jackasses. I heard that they want to completely shut off access to the purifier to anyone that isn’t one of them. Something about security breaches but...I thought the point was supposed to be fresh water for all, not water for anyone willing to suck Maxson’s di—”

That electric feeling on the back of her neck came back, had her jolting upright and reaching for her pistol out of habit. She glanced around, only noticed a group of birds darting from one withered branch to the next, and shook her head.

“I’m really fucking jumpy, sorry,” she muttered to the stone.

“Hey, don’t worry about it.”

Viv leapt up and spun on her heel. A calloused hand gripped her forearm and yanked her forward, securing her against an armored chest. Another hand slapped over her mouth before she could shout, the filthy fingers smelled like oil and dug into her jaw with bruising force as she struggled. The stranger wrestled her to the ground, behind the monument and out of sight. She was forced onto her back, mouth muffled by that disgusting hand and she glared up at her unexpected visitors.

There were two of them.

The man who held her down wore metal armor. His face was sun-burned and a mess of wiry copper hair coiled on top of his head. He looked down at her with a crooked, gap-toothed grin, laughing as she squirmed and tried to throw him off of her.

The other man watched her with disgust. Dressed with road leathers, his greasy black hair was slicked back and he had a freshly healed scar across the bridge of his nose. His hand rested on a knife at his hip, idly fingering the pommel as he raked his eyes along the line of her body.

_Fuck…_

“You’re a lot cuter up close,” the ginger said. “Too cute for a zombie-fucker.”

“Stop fucking around and hurry up.” The other man scowled and spat a yellow glob into the dirt.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ginger shifted and pulled out a pistol. “You’re a loud little bitch, aren’t ya? Kept me and my friend up all night...who knows who else might hear you out here?”

Viv eyed the gun, gulped against the dry lump lodged in her throat, and it seemed to be the reaction Ginger was looking for. He grinned and tapped the barrel against her temple.

“Don’t scream,” he warned, his other hand already roaming beneath her clothes. “If that zombie comes back, we’ll kill him and fuck you on the corpse.”

Her stomach lurched up into her throat, repulsed at the touch scraping over her ribs. If only the fucker would move the gun away, but he kept the barrel pressed against her head as he fondled her. Ginger looked even more excited, that grin spreading wider to reveal splotchy gums and yellow teeth.

“Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you. Show you what it’s like to get fucked by real men.”

Another pair of hands started roaming up her thighs...and she laughed. It spread through her like a plague, barely contained giggles erupted into hysteria faster than she could register what was happening.

She laughed until tears streamed from her eyes and her stomach burned despite the nausea. She laughed even as the gun against her head faltered, the men looming over her becoming notably disturbed, and she slammed her forehead into Ginger’s nose with a satisfying crunch. He howled and dropped his weapon, stumbling back into his companion as geysers of crimson spurted between his fingers.

“You’re fucked, all right.” Residual giggles bubbled out of her as she dove forward, snatching up the discarded pistol as Scar rushed past his wailing companion.

The back of her head cracked against the concrete, the palm of Scar’s hand smothering her mouth and nose as he tackled her. He wrestled for the gun, squeezing her wrist in an attempt to make her drop it, slamming his knee into her side. Viv shook her head and opened her mouth as wide as it would go, chomping on Scar’s hand until he screamed and blood gushed over her tongue.

The gunshot was deafening.

Scar rolled off of her, clutching his gut as blood fountained through the gaps in his fingers. Sheer hatred burned in his eyes, crimson painting the inside of his mouth in a sneer. 

Viv pushed herself up and pressed the barrel between his eyes. Her vision swam, blood soaking the back of her head and matting her hair to her skull, but the gunmetal kissed his skin and there was no way she could miss.

“Fuck you,” she spat and pulled the trigger.

Ginger watched her, wheezing wetly around his crushed nose. He gaped when Scar’s body crumpled to the ground, hysterical noises ripping from his throat as he stumbled back and started to run.

Charon’s fist collided with his stomach before he got two steps in, knocking out his breath and dropping him to his knees. He crushed his boot into Ginger’s chest and pinned him into the dirt, shotgun poised for attack.

“Are you hurt?” Charon asked. His enraged visage never once turned away from the man begging beneath him.

“I’ll live.” Viv walked over, disgust curling her lip. “Don’t shoot him.”

Charon paused.

“What do you want to do?” He asked.

“Keep him held down.” Viv bent over and pulled her knife out of her boot.

Ginger’s high-pitched wailing exacerbated the pain in her head. It was hard to think—hard to decide what was the best decision to make. What was expected of her? Was she supposed to kill him, leave nothing learned from the situation? Let him go on to attack another woman?

“You followed us from Rivet City, right?” She asked, poking his face with her foot. “Hey, answer me.”

“Y-ye—s,” he croaked, blood gurgling in the back of his throat.

“All for what?” When he didn’t answer, she knelt down beside him. “You wanted to teach me some sort of lesson because you’re, what, just that unlucky with women you have to take it out on...what did you call me—a ‘Zombie-fucker’?”

Ginger coughed, choking on the blood clogging his throat. Viv turned his head toward her, draining the blood from his nose and mouth. 

“The thing is,” she said, rolling Ginger’s head back to face forward, “you’re not really my type. But I can fix that.”

There was only a brief sound of confusion before he started screaming.

Viv’s knife sawed beneath his ear. The serrated edge shredded the flesh, coating her hands with blood and chunks of meat as she worked on separating his ear from his skull. He writhed beneath Charon’s boot, tears mixing with snot and blood as he clawed helplessly at the ghoul’s leg.

Charon could only watch. His body was frozen, not quite sure of what he was looking at. He was torn between following her command of keeping the bastard pinned down and grabbing her hands to...help her? Stop her? The man deserved to be punished, death certainly seemed too easy for him, but there was something about the scene that felt wrong—perverse—as though he were watching something he shouldn’t.

“When people ask you what happened to your face, I want you to tell them,” Viv’s voice shook, but her hands were steady as she pressed the blade just beneath the man’s jaw.

“Viv…” Charon didn’t recognize the woman in front of him. She ignored him, digging the edge of the knife into the flesh of her captive.

_There are three layers of skin..._

“Tell them you tried to rape a ‘zombie-fucker’,” she sawed the blade upward, flaying a strip of flesh away from his cheek, “so she made you look like one.”

This wasn’t her. 

“Viv, stop!”

This was a path that would only pave the road to her downfall if he didn’t stop her—a road that ended with his shotgun at her head and regret in his heart. He feared she was already too far gone, the way she coldly ignored him and continued to carve at the screaming man’s face.

Charon grabbed her arm and yanked her back. She almost sliced him with the knife as she struggled, squirming against him as he tried to restrain her. She had to see reason or it would already be too late. 

“Let me go!” She snarled.

“Listen to—!”

“ _Let go!_ ”

Charon grit his teeth. The more she fought against him, the higher the risk. She could order him to leave her or maybe fire him. Her eyes were wild and glassy with unshed tears and he found he had no idea what to expect from her.

“Damn it, Charon! I order you—”

He only had one hope left.

“SugarBombs.”

Viv froze.

“What...did you…?”

“SugarBombs,” Charon repeated. His hand encased hers, carefully prying the knife from her weakening grip.

Viv dropped her gaze down to his boot, to the man trembling in the dirt where her father’s remains were being tainted by his blood. Tension left her body, rendering her muscles useless as she surveyed the damage she had caused.

_You’ve gone too far._

Charon caught her just as her knees gave out, tears flooding down her cheeks. She muffled her sobs into his chest, clutching desperately at the straps of his armor as though she’d drown without him. He held her to his body, shielding her as much as he could from what she had done.

The man beneath his boot went limp, shock leaving his body trembling as badly as Viv was in his arms. Something needed to be done with him.

“Viv,” Charon carefully lifted her face away from his chest. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. She looked frayed at the edges, completely wired, one wrong word away from snapping for good. “Go inside and wait for me.”

“No, I…” she clutched his armor tighter.

“I won’t be long.” He spoke slowly. Leaving her alone was the last thing he wanted, but she needed to get away. “Go inside and wash off. I’ll be there before you’re finished.”

Viv glanced down at herself, covered in gore and dust, and took a shuddering breath. She gave him a reluctant nod but shifted in uncertainty.

“What about…?” Her eyes started to trail down to the other man. Charon grabbed her chin and forced her to only look at him.

“Let me take care of it.”

She seemed unsure. Her fingers shook against his chest, but eventually she slipped her hands up to cup his jaw and guide him closer. He let her kiss him softly, only once, before he turned her towards the old gift shop. Her small fists clenched at her side but she didn’t walk away. When she spoke, it was with practiced authority despite the tremble at the end of her words.

“Take care of this, Charon. However you see fit.” 

“As you wish,” he responded automatically.

He watched her walk away, relieved when she didn’t look back. He waited until she disappeared inside the building before turning his attention to Ginger. Blood and mucus caked his face, tears streaming filthy streaks across his pale skin. His ear dangled from the side of his head by a strip of shredded flesh. The skin of his cheek flapped loosely as he tried to turn his head away.

“Are-Are you gonna let me go?” He croaked.

Charon flipped Viv’s knife in his hand, examining the crimson edge with disinterest.

“No.”

Charon removed his boot from the man’s chest and gripped him by the hair. He dragged Ginger away from the building, the other body could be the Brotherhood’s problem for all he cared. All the way down to the road, the man shrieked and kicked his legs. He choked on his own sobs as soon as he realized where they were going, begged and swore, soiled himself, but Charon kept walking.

The Brotherhood had cleared out most of the threats surrounding the purifier, but the barricades surrounding the Super Mutant camp still stood tall. The coils of barbed wire were rusted with blood and bits of flesh turned to leather by the sun. The booming voices of the mutants sounded the alarm as Charon approached.

“Why?!” Ginger wailed, clawing at Charon’s hand. “Why’d you stop her if you were just going to bring me here?!”

Charon scowled, tossing the man in front of him. He raised his leg and slammed his foot into Ginger’s kneecap until he heard it crunch, then stamped down a few more times for good measure. The screams lured the mutants out from behind the barricade, guns poised to attack.

“What Ghoul want? Go away!” One shouted. It looked at the man howling on the ground with dumb curiosity.

“Just leaving,” Charon grumbled. He kicked Ginger forward and turned away.

He heard the thundering steps of the mutants approaching but he didn’t look back. As they dragged Ginger off, his terrified screams echoed through the skeletons of the city.

* * *

  
  


Viv stood under the cool spray of the showerhead. Blood and dirt swirled into rust colored water that seemed to never run clean. She must have looked a fright. The Brotherhood scientists working the floor hadn’t even greeted her, just parted a path for her to walk down to the sub-basement living quarters with wide eyes and gaping mouths. Her clothes had stuck to her skin with sweat and blood and she left them in a pile on the floor. She scrubbed her filthy hands with a cloth, digging into the lines of her palms until her skin cracked and peeled from the force.

She had killed more people than she could count: raiders, enclave soldiers, it was the law of the wastes. Kill or be killed was the first rule Charon had ever taught her...but she had never tortured anyone. She just wanted to teach that bastard a lesson. She wanted to make him pay for daring to molest her on her father’s grave. All she could see was red as she had dragged her knife through his flesh. If Charon hadn’t stopped her…

Her stomach heaved and she scrambled out of the shower, barely making it to the toilet in time. She retched and vomited her meager breakfast, dripping a freezing puddle on the cracked tile floor. She flushed once she was sure she was finished, spitting the residual bile out of her mouth as she fought back tears. All she had ever wanted since she was young was to help people— to be a doctor just like her father. 

What was she now?

The bathroom door opened and she jolted upright. Charon stepped inside, locking the door behind him as he looked down at her with an unreadable expression. His armor and underclothes joined the heap of her own clothing, weapons and pack abandoned against the wall. Once he was finished undressing, he silently lifted her and guided her back into the shower.

Viv washed her mouth out under the water, shivering while Charon took her hair in his hands, combing out tangles and bloody gunk with his fingers. She hissed sharply as he brushed against the gash in her scalp.

“It’s not too bad,” he assured her.

She nodded and closed her eyes. He was being as gentle as he could and it almost forced a laugh out of her. His movements were soft but hesitant, as though he didn’t know what to do with her hair when he wasn’t yanking it back.

“What...happens now?” She asked. Charon made a questioning grunt, but didn’t stop cleaning her off. “Are you going to punish me?”

He only pushed her wet hair over her shoulder and started washing her back. She would deserve it. Torture was for evil bastards, and she knew all too well what Charon did to evil bastards.

“The only thing you did wrong was try to do it yourself,” he said at length. “He deserved it. All of it.”

Viv frowned and glanced over her shoulder. 

“Then...why did you stop me?”

Charon lifted her hand, scrubbed red and raw to the point where their palms almost looked the same. He ran his thumb over the sore skin and she winced and sucked in a breath through her teeth.

“It would ruin you. You should have used me.”

Viv shook her head vehemently, holding her aching hand to her chest.

“I’d never force you to do something that I wouldn’t normally do myself,” she swore.

Charon rested his hands on her hips. She had some bruises darkening her skin, though he wasn’t sure which ones he’d left and which she obtained during her fight. If she hadn’t been able to get a weapon, he shuddered to think of what else could have happened. He pulled her closer and braced her against his chest. Her gasp was barely masked by the sound of flowing water.

“Where did he touch you?” He growled.

Viv looked away.

“They didn’t get to do much.”

“Where?” Charon repeated.

Hesitantly, she took his hand and trailed it up her rib cage. The other, she settled on her thigh. Charon took over, a barely-there touch that trailed up to her breasts. He buried his face in her neck, kissing her slick skin as his hands worked to erase the filth of the other men. Viv tilted her head back, anticipating his bite but it never came. His touch stayed light, kisses teasing and slow, and she groaned.

“You don’t have to try to be gentle for me, Charon.”

For the first time, Charon looked unsure. In any other situation, it would have been comical and Viv never would let him live it down. Instead, she turned so she could pull him closer and crashed her lips against his. She bit down on his lower lip until he grunted and pinned her against the tiled wall.

“Get them off of me,” she ordered.

Charon licked a pearl of blood from his split skin, hazy eyes burning.

“As you wish.”

Charon lifted her off the ground, hooking her knees around his hips for support. Viv clung to him as his hands began leaving rough trails along her skin. He claimed every inch of her for himself, like a bombshell hitting ground zero, burning his mark everywhere he touched. His teeth, his fingers, even his eyes lit her entire body aflame.

There were no demands, no rules to follow as he sheathed himself inside her. A feral sound hissed a hot trail against her skin as he lapped and nipped at her throat. He thrust up smoothly with a strong grip on her hips to help her slide against the slick tile and meet his movements. Viv locked her arms around his shoulders, almost cracking her head against the wall at the sensation of him stretching her. Usually he gave her some time to adjust, but the more she cried out, the harder he rocked into her. He moved slower than usual— none of the brutal, desperate pounding of his hips that she had grown accustomed to. He took his time to pull nearly all the way out of her, the flare of his dark head anchoring him inside so he could drive himself straight to the hilt.

The tension built slowly, a winding spring coiling tighter with each brush of his skin against her. When she came, it spread through her like the heat of a stimpack seeping through her veins. Slow waves of pleasure rolled through her, spreading down her spine to the tips of her fingers and toes. Her nails anchored into his trapezius muscles, piercing what little skin he still had covering them as she moaned pitifully into his ear as she was overtaken.

Her legs grew weak, loosening their grip around his hips as her body went limp. Charon stilled, supporting her as one foot came down to rest on the floor. Her nerves sang with ecstasy and left her limbs useless. 

After what felt like an eternity, Viv shifted and brushed a lazy kiss to his lips. Charon’s tongue slipped into her mouth, hands roaming a wandering path from her thighs to her breasts. He massaged and toyed with her, rolling her nipples under his thumbs as his tongue stroked along hers. She sighed into his kiss and Charon twitched inside her. It would take an eternity for him to get off, moving as slow as he had. She had no doubt that he’d done it strictly for her benefit. Distantly, she thought it was probably the sweetest thing he’d ever done for her.

Viv broke their kiss, lips tingling from the rough texture of his mouth. She held his heated stare and tilted her head with a daring smirk. 

“That all you got?” She challenged.

Charon’s lips quirked upwards. He pulled out of her, ignoring her whine of protest, and spun her around. She bent over to brace herself against the wall, pushing her ass back against him. She thought her hands would be enough, but Charon snapped his hips forward and she fell to her forearms with a shriek.

The slow, deep, dragging thrusts were gone, his reserves of softness all dried up, as he speared her over and over again from behind. The force left her helplessly clawing at the grout as stars sparked before her eyes. Her thighs burned with strain, a dull throbbing radiating inside her with each snap of his hips. 

This was what she needed. Charon wasn’t made for gentleness. He was born from gunmetal and ash, his passion explosive like gunpowder, ripping away a new part of her with each explosion. He filled her body and mind until she couldn’t help but wonder who really owned whom. She may have had his contract but he had all of her, everything she could willingly give and whatever she couldn’t, he could rip from her bloody fingers if he felt so inclined.

Charon’s hand slipped down her stomach, sliding his fingers between her thighs. Viv yelped and jerked her hips away from the sudden touch, unwittingly slamming herself back into his persistent thrusts. He hit a spot deep inside her, grunting as she contracted around him and she buried her face in her arms with a desperate moan. It was too much. Those fingers furiously worked over her in tandem to his savage tempo until her vision darkened around the edges.

She shattered like a fist driving through a mirror, splintered shards ripping through her until she couldn’t differentiate between pain and pleasure. Charon’s breath was hot on her neck, face burrowed into her wet hair and his chest pressed against her back. He held her flush against his hips, finishing with a rolling growl that trembled through her.

She wanted more, despite the way her muscles screamed for mercy and rest. She wanted to lose herself in the feeling of him taking her for himself, carving his name into her flesh with every bruise and bite until no one else would dare to touch her.

It was all too soon when Charon pulled away and shut off the stream of water showering over them. Losing his heat left her shivering against the wall. A thin towel was dutifully wiped along her body, patting her hair dry and cleaning between her legs with practiced efficiency. He lifted her into his arms just as she thought she couldn’t stay standing, secured close to his chest where she could feel the thundering of his heart.

Charon kicked through the pile of soiled clothing on the floor and snorted in distaste. Her shirt and jeans were soaked through with blood, unsalvageable even if they were to soak in Ambraxo for a month. He sat her on the counter to dig through her pack for her spare clothes, brushing her hands to the side as she tried to take them from him.

After he dressed her, Viv followed him silently through the halls until they reached her father’s old room. She’d claimed it for them after the war and none of the scientists saw reason to deny her— lucky, as there were very few private rooms at the memorial. She sat on the edge of the bed, combing her fingers through her damp hair as Charon took stock of their supplies. 

It was a struggle to keep her mind blank. Her thoughts kept drifting back to the sound of tearing flesh and screams, the smell of iron, of the way that man sobbed as she disfigured him. Charon told her that she should have used him, but the thought of ordering him to do the deed for her had her stomach rising to her throat.

She _had_ ordered him to end it. As she watched his broad back hunch over their packs, she wondered what he had done at her command. Had he killed the man? Mutilated him more? It would be no big loss, but her concern lay with Charon. In their years together, her orders had been as minimal as she could manage in order to stay alive.

_Teach me._

_Protect me._

_Don’t let this strange world take me._

Had she ordered him to kill? Had she turned her only partner and confidant into a weapon?

“Charon?” She cursed how small her voice sounded. “What happened to...him?”

Charon zipped up their packs, exhaling heavily through his nasal cavity. He stood to his full height and turned to face her, expression as placid as the grave.

“Do you really want to know?”

Viv swallowed the thick lump in her throat. He would tell her in explicit detail if she asked. The part of her that raged at being violated warred with the part that lamented over what she had almost become. She watched Charon approach with wide eyes that fluttered shut at the first brush of his mangled finger against her cheek.

“No.” She decided. There was no doubt in her mind that the man would never be able to attack another person again. Whether Charon let him go or killed him, she trusted he made the right decision— for her and for himself.

He nodded and his hand fell away.

“Get some rest, Viv.”

Viv sighed and forced herself to her feet.

“As nice as that sounds, we still have to head over to the Citadel. Underworld is getting shafted with the water deliveries and I’m not guarding another caravan until Maxson gets the spike out of his ass.”

Charon gripped her shoulder and forced her back down, the downward curl of his lips left no room for protest.

“Maxson isn’t going anywhere,” he said, “and you’re not in any condition to argue with him right now. Sleep.”

“Is that an order?” Viv snorted.

“Yes.”

She couldn’t help but laugh, the tension coiling in her back and shoulders lessened at the outburst. 

“As you wish,” she smirked and flopped back against the pillow. The bed was nowhere near as comfortable as the one as the Weatherly, but a mattress was a mattress and she wasn’t about to complain. She reached out to him, pleasantly surprised when he was already climbing into bed beside her.

Charon settled himself to sandwich her between him and the wall, as if an enemy could burst through the door at any moment and he was the first and last line of defense. His arms caged her to his chest, strong and solid. She must have looked so pathetic for him to be treating her like she was fresh out of the vault all over again.

For now, she could let herself feel spoiled by him. Exhaustion settled deep in her bones, the adrenaline from earlier seeping out of her system and their shower activities left her body feeling heavy and her mind in a haze.

“I like you,” she murmured into his chest. Charon grunted and she smiled, closing her eyes and nestling into the heat of his body. As sleep burrowed its claws into her consciousness, she was barely aware of the rattle of his voice ghosting through her hair.

“I like you too, Viv.”


	2. Only You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where my essential employees at?! 911 never sleeps and apparently neither does ghoul smut. I really should be working on my other WIP but this story is just demanding to be written and I’m having a blast doing it. I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy during these difficult times and thank you so much for the wonderful comments you’ve left!

Charon had seen the fires of Hell. He’d ridden with the proverbial horsemen—seen war, famine, plagues, and the death of more men and women than he could count. He survived countless hails of gunfire from psycho-addled raiders, the spiked weapons of super mutants, the plasma canons of the enclave, even a near-crippling slash of a Deathclaw. He’d survived all the horrors of several lifetimes spent in the wastes and all the monotony of an eternity in an Underworld bar.

He wondered how he would survive this.

“Stop squirming!” He snapped, jamming his elbow between the shoulder blades of his “fearless” mistress. They sat on the edge of the small bed in their room at the Jefferson Memorial. Her face rested on his lap, dirty nails clutching at the fabric of his jeans as she tried to shy away from the syringe looming above her.

“I can’t help it! It’s too fucking big!” Viv complained, trying her best to inch away from his hovering hand.

“Since when is that an issue?” He muttered dryly, flipping some stray curls away from the gash on the back of her head. It hadn’t completely scabbed over, and after waking up to a pillowcase stained scarlet, it was determined that stitches would most definitely be needed. 

“Oh, har-dee- _fucking_ -har, Charon!” She tilted her head to glare at him but only managed to make intimate eye-contact with the needle. With a graceful shout of “ _fuck!_ ” she burrowed her face back onto his lap.

“Aren’t you a nurse?” Charon accused, waiting for the smoothskin to stop her trembling so he could just stick her and be done already.

“That’s hardly the point. There’s a difference between poking someone else and someone else poking me— _OW_!”

“There,” He grumbled, pushing the plunger. The numbing buzz of Med-X seeped through her scalp, overpowering the throbbing headache she’d woken up with that afternoon.

Viv groaned, relieved at the subsiding pain but knowing the torment was only beginning.

“Have you ever done this before?” She asked, trying not to think of the clinking noises coming from their medkit.

“Since before your grandfather was born,” Charon said. Viv blinked, barely registering the pressure of the curved needle and thread pulling the gash on her head back together again.

“Wait...really?” Viv tried to look up at him but a warning growl set her straight. She forced herself still as the needle pierced her skin again and pulled it taught. “How old _are_ you?”

“Old enough that I don’t have to answer that.”

She snorted. There was another firm pressure as he knotted the thread and cut the loose end with his teeth. She didn’t have time to enjoy the heat of his breath in her hair before the thick needle of a stimpack replaced his lips, searing liquid heat through her skull. 

“It’s finished. Get up,” he said. 

Viv hummed and rolled onto her side, sliding her hand to press against the wall of his abs. 

“Do I get to thank you for patching me up?” She asked.

Charon’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t slap her hand away as it traced each curve of muscle from his rib cage down to his belt. 

“Insatiable brat,” he grumbled. As her fingers struggled with his buckle, the corner of his lips twisted into a mocking smirk and he sat back. “Sit up straight first.”

“That all?” Viv pushed herself upright...and the room swirled around her. She pitched forward, caught by Charon’s solid arm that pulled her back onto his lap and secured her against his chest. 

Her head was spinning, residual effects of the Med-X and Stimpack made her feel like she was floating. She understood how an addiction could develop to the soft waves of comfort they provided, but all the Med-X in the world couldn’t compare to his solid form pressed against her, the raw power and scorching heat of his arms securing her to that solid chest. She was no better than Leo Stahl sneaking off to the water plant for his next hit, craving Charon’s touch and all the pain and pleasure it promised, no matter the consequences or scrutiny of the general populace.

He had to know it, the bastard. Charon had never looked so smug in all the years they spent together than he did in that moment. 

“I don’t know what you’re so happy about,” Viv groused, closing her eyes against the spiraling room, “you’re the one who’s missing out on a blowjob.”

“I don’t need you passing out in the middle of it.”

Any witty retort her swimming mind may have formed died at the sound of heavy footsteps approaching their door. It was the telltale thunder of power armor marching through the steel corridors, nearly dousing the heat of desire that stormed beneath her skin. Two solid knocks rattled the door, rusted hinges grinding in protest to the heavy fist pounding on the thin slab of repurposed metal.

Viv had half a mind to send them away— conveniently, it was the half not numbed by the chems. She opened her mouth to banish their unwelcome guest, but only managed an indecipherable sound as Charon adjusted her in his lap and she felt him half-hard against the curve of her backside.

The door swung open, either mistaking her utterance for one of acknowledgment or just a sheer disregard for her privacy, and an armored soldier marched inside.

“Paladin Danse,” Viv offered the greeting through clenched teeth. The chems were wearing off as quickly as they had been injected and what little patience she had to spare the Brotherhood these days was dissolving with the gentle high.

“Miss Nelson.” Danse kept his eyes decisively on her, though the downward curve of his lips hinted at his distaste for her position. It was his own fault, entering without her permission. She imagined his reaction if she had gotten her way: on her knees with Charon stretching her throat...the soldier’s hair would go white from shock. 

What a missed opportunity.

“Elder Maxson is requesting your presence at the Citadel.” Short, to the point. The man was clearly uncomfortable, trying his damndest to avoid looking at the way she subtly moved her hips back against Charon. She’d fuck herself on his lap if he’d let her, just to prove a point to the man in the tin can. She wasn’t at the Brotherhood’s beck and call— especially not now.

With the death of Owyn and Sarah Lyons, the Brotherhood of Steel had been floundering. Lack of stable leadership caused more infighting than progress. The Brotherhood purists fought tooth and nail to try and bring the Eastern Division back to roots, while the Lyons’ loyalists pushed to maintain the late Elder’s humanitarian approach. 

It was with no small amount of charisma that Viv managed to keep the purifier open to any passing soul in need—despite the more “traditional” views of the purists, who argued the technology behind the Jefferson Memorial needed to be hidden—and maintained regular shipments to settlements via the caravans of Canterbury Commons. Yet, despite granting the Capital Wasteland with the live-giving water it so desperately required, all her hard work nearly went straight down the shitter...and then Arthur Maxson donned the mantle of Elder.

He’d been such a timid boy—eager to make the Brotherhood proud in any way he could. He had the weight of the world on his shoulders, all due to his ancestry of Brotherhood heroes. Viv found herself empathizing with the young Squire from the moment she learned of his circumstances, but time had a way of corrupting the meek. The once-trembling waif of a child now sat on a throne forged of militant accomplishments, glittering accolades, and the worship of his subordinates. They viewed him as a god, as the perfect specimen of mankind, and while he had a more humanitarian approach than others when it came to his leadership, he used the unspoken threat of his zealous army to stand in her way whenever she voiced concerns for the not-so-smoothskinned citizens of the Wasteland.

If he was requesting to speak to her personally, it did not bode well. Elder Maxson must be at the end of his rope and was hoping she had enough humanity left not to tie the noose.

“I know the way,” Viv said. “We were going to head over tomorrow anyway.”

“I have orders to escort you immediately. The ghoul stays here.”

Charon scowled. His hands gripped Viv’s hips as though to yank her off, but the back of her hand on his chest kept him still. Dealing with the Brotherhood was a dance of dominance and they would steamroll anyone that lost track of the steps. To Danse, it would look like she were calling her ghoul off, stopping him from attacking rather than merely trying to calm her partner. In this situation, she didn’t mind taking advantage of Charon’s intimidation factor.

“Charon goes where I go,” she said evenly. “Elder Maxson can see both of us today or neither of us at all,” Viv arched a challenging brow at Danse’s silence, “is that going to be a problem?” 

“Very well,” Danse clenched his jaw, “gather your things. I’ll wait for you, the _both_ of you, outside.”

“Good.” Viv watched him go with a neutral expression, shoulders only relaxing once the door was closed and the two of them were finally alone again. She deflated against Charon’s chest, let his warmth seep into her back and let the tension uncoil in her body. 

She felt the steam of his breath on the top of her head before his growl thundered in his chest. His fingers dug into the meat of her hips.

“What the fuck was that?” He bit out.

“What was what?” Viv asked innocently.

Charon twisted her beneath him, hazy eyes burning with malice and something else that shot directly between her legs.

“You want him to watch, is that it?” He snarled, hooking his fingers into the waistband of her jeans. Viv yelped as he yanked her pants down with no further warning than the sound of seams straining. The denim burned the flesh of her thighs and caught just below her knees that were dangling off the side of the bed.

Charon watched as she gaped at him. He made no further movements until her mind caught up with her, standing as still as a gargoyle surveying her reaction. Viv met his eyes, searching for any hint of true rage, any sign that this was not completely under her control. When she found none, she kicked her jeans off completely and spread her legs, welcoming him.

“What were you thinking?” Charon wasted no more time falling back into his role, shoving her shirt over her breasts. “You want him to see you like this?”

His fingers fondled her as he stepped between her thighs, rolling his thumbs over her nipples and squeezing the soft tissue with bruising force. Viv arched her back, pushing her breasts into his palms as she tried to grind herself against that tent she knew was forming in his jeans. She moaned as his fingers pinched and squeezed, and almost missed what he said next.

“You want _him_ to touch you like this.”

It was more of an accusation than a question. Viv’s eyes snapped to his face, landing on his frown. Did he really think that was true? After ten fucking years beside him, beneath him, on top of him, did he think she wanted some smoothskin pretty boy with questionable morals? If this was part of the game, she wasn’t fucking playing. She grabbed his wrists and ripped his hands from her chest with a scowl.

“Fuck you,” she spat and tried to shove him away. “How could you even say something like—” 

Charon’s hand flew to her throat, pinning her back down. There was just enough pressure to keep her there, but not enough to cut off her ability to speak. She could say the word, end it there, and give him a piece of her fucking mind. But, she couldn’t bring herself to stop him. Was he just using her behavior in front of Danse as an excuse to have a quickie or was he really bothered by it all? Was it jealousy or just a convenient scapegoat to delay his regression to silent guard? When he dragged two fingers along the source of the slickness glistening on the inside of her thighs, his fingers choking off her quiet moan, she still couldn’t determine the answer.

“Answer me,” he ordered. He thrust his finger inside her with no warning, curling and sliding against her sensitive flesh as she cried out and strained against the hold on her throat.

“No,” she managed to gasp out. Charon gave her no reprieve. He added another finger, his thumb swirling around her nub with experienced circles to add to the savagery of his digits pounding inside of her.

“No to what?” He sneered.

“No, I don’t want him to touch me,” Viv ground herself against his hand, “but I did want him to… to look at me.”

Charon scowled dangerously and added a third finger. She almost screamed.

“I-I wanted him to see you touching me!” She admitted. “I wanted...wanted him to see—oh, _fuck_ , _Charon_!”

“Keep talking,” he said, curling his fingers again to hit that spot that left her so close to sobbing beneath him.

“I wanted him to see what you do to me!” She wailed. “Only you.”

Charon made a sound of approval, continued to rub that raised part inside her that reduced her to a trembling, desperate mess beneath him. 

“Who knows how to touch you?” He hissed.

“Only you…”

“Who gets to mark this skin?” He leaned down and clamped his teeth just beneath her earlobe, lathed his tongue along the bruises marring her neck. Her breath hitched and tears sprung to her eyes as her flesh darkened between his teeth.

“You!”

“Who is the only one that can make you cum?”

“God _fucking_ damn it, _you,_ Charon!” She shrieked. She couldn’t take it anymore. Charon’s fingers worked her with all the precision of a gifted musician. He knew just where to touch, curl his fingers inside to tease her, lick and bite her skin until it bloomed with his signature. He could make her body react with even the slightest brush of his rough skin against her. When he focused his attention it was an assault of sensation, and when he _spoke_ —oh _god_ , but she had begged him for years to talk dirty to her. When they first started expanding their relationship into sexual territory, it was all that she had wanted, needed, but when her one companion had all the personality of a mausoleum she had never expected to get her wish. Even now it was an occurrence so rare, she felt like she needed to celebrate whenever he chose to indulge her, and she felt herself losing control. All she could do was ride out the pleasure he gave her, hang on every word, until she finally...

Charon yanked his fingers out of her just as she started to tense around him and she screamed. Viv stared up at him with wild eyes as he stepped back, teeth bared in a necrotic grin that only served to piss her off. 

“Remember that on the walk to the Citadel,” he said. His long tongue darted between his dripping fingers, licking them clean as she watched him with horror.

“You can’t! You can’t just...just leave me like this!”

Charon turned his back, scooping up their packs with an air of finality that left her stunned to silence. He walked to the door, glancing back at her only once with a smirk that she wanted to smack off his face.

“Your punishment for the Weatherly,” was all he said before he opened the door.

“You _motherfucker_!” Viv screeched and threw the closest projectile she could reach—the lumpy, faded pillow—after him as he stepped out. She could have sworn she heard him snicker when the door closed behind him, but blood was rushing in her ears and she was battling the most curiously intense urge to shoot him.

She shoved her shirt back down, face burning with rage and lust. She stood on trembling legs and pulled her jeans back over her hips, doing her best to ignore the dampness between her thighs. It would only become more uncomfortable during their journey. The scrape of denim felt like sandpaper against her aching skin and she looked for her pack to find a pair of cotton shorts usually reserved for extra protection during _that time of the month._ It’d feel nasty, but at least it was a barrier blocking the rough fabric.

It only took a quick scan of the room to leave her hurling more curses at the door. Charon had taken her pack as well. If she didn’t snap and murder him before they reached the Citadel, it would be by divine grace only.

* * *

  
  


The Citadel exuded the same oppressive aura as the soldiers patrolling its perimeter. The building was a monument of superiority: Sturdy concrete walls loomed over the Wasteland with iron gates like armor shielding the inner workings of the Brotherhood from unworthy eyes. 

The first time she’d seen it, her mind had been numbed by the shock of losing her father. She’d stared up at the fortress as though it were a haven, the last bastion between her and the enclave. She’d barely been used to being shot at, still heavily relied on Charon playing the piece of her black knight on the battlefield that she could command from the far side of the board. Everything about her had been fragile, from her body to her mind, and watching the Enclave rip away her sole reason for living had left her so cold and empty inside that any building with four walls and a door would have felt as sheltering as a chapel—the Citadel may as well have been Eden.

Now, she knew better. The Citadel had never been her port in the storm raging in her heart. 

Charon was.

Charon, who had suffered burns on his arms, back, and legs as he’d shielded her shellshocked body from the onslaught of Enclave plasma rifles.

Charon, who treated his own wounds when the Brotherhood medics refused to see him and she was too busy wallowing to assist. Yet, he kept the pestering scribes and soldiers at bay with feral snarls when they tried to question her as she grieved—too broken to even cry.

Charon, who’d finally decided enough was enough and lifted her out of bed with her shirt bunched in his fists after she’d refused yet another meal.

_“Eat. Something.” He ground out through clenched teeth. Vivian hung limp in his grip, hollow cheeks and deep, dark, circles under her eyes left her almost as zombie-like as he was._

_“I’m not hungry.”_

_Charon growled and shoved her against the wall with enough force to shake the oil lamp on the bedside table._

_“It’s been nearly a week,” he snapped. “Do you_ want _to die?”_

_“The human body can survive upwards of three weeks without food,” she recited dully._

_Charon dropped her and took a step back, not bothering to right her as she crumpled to the floor. He snatched a chipped bowl from the desk, dropped off earlier by some squire too scared to look him in the eyes. It was filled with a meat stew of unknown origin, but it was a hot meal and he’d be damned if she passed up another one._

_“The first order you ever gave me was to keep you alive,” he scowled and filled a spoon full of the broth. “I’m sworn to follow your commands.”_

_Vivian snorted rudely through her nose._

_“Then I_ command _you to—hrrk!”_

_Charon yanked her head back by her hair and shoved the spoon into her open mouth, spilling the broth over her tongue. He grasped her jaw and forced her mouth shut, sealing her lips with his hand when she thrashed against him._

_“Swallow it!” He barked. Her nails pierced a plasma burn on his forearm and he hissed, but he pinned her down and pinched her nostrils closed with his fingers. “I said swallow it!” His other hand stroked along her throat until she reflexively gulped it down._

_He released her immediately, watched as she coughed and gasped for air with tears streaking through the dirt of her face. She turned her burning eyes on him, finally,_ finally _, showing some sign of life._

_“I hate you,” she seethed._

_“Then hate me.”_

_She lunged at him then, pummeled her tiny fists against his chest that wouldn’t have bruised him even if he had skin left there._

_“I hate you!” She shrieked. “You’re so tough, so fucking badass and you didn’t even try to help him! You could have stopped them from killing him! You could have...you could have…” her words died in the back of her throat, replaced by a heart-wrenching wail as she finally snapped. She clung to his chest, sobbing and screaming, cursing and howling, until her voice went raw and useless._

_Charon rested his hands on her back, a supporting weight that was all he could manage. She’d dragged him into this when she purchased his contract, made her battles his own, and until the day she sold him or perished in this world too dark and broken for happily ever afters, she wouldn’t be alone. For good or ill, she had him._

_It felt like hours before her tears finally stopped. She deflated against him so suddenly, Charon thought she’d cried herself unconscious. It wasn’t until she sniffled and pulled away from where her tears and snot streaked his armor that he saw a shred of improvement._

_“Can I...have the rest of that stew?”_

Viv glanced over her shoulder to where Charon followed. His eyes were trained on their surroundings, ever the perfect example of a bodyguard. Looking back on everything they’d been through, what a pillar of sanity he’d been for her since she left the vault, she could almost forget she was supposed to be annoyed at him.

Almost.

When they grouped up with Paladin Danse outside the memorial, he seemed to read the atmosphere rather well. There was no unnecessary chatter during the hours spent traveling the broken roads. Their trip wasn’t even disrupted by raiders. She supposed a man in power armor toting a giant laser rifle and a behemoth of a ghoul would serve as a healthy deterrent for anybody, but she had at least been hoping for some kind of firefight to take her mind off Charon’s earlier conduct.

As it stood, she was left awkwardly shifting while Danse approached the gate, notifying the guards of their presence just as the sun was beginning to set. The ground shook as the massive blast doors rose, exposing the Bailey and a horde of initiates training in the courtyard. Viv stepped toward the opening gate, but bristled when Danse held out a barricading arm. 

“I have to insist,” Danse looked as though he had a vile taste in his mouth, “that Charon wait out here.”

Charon scowled, advancing on the soldier with a forceful stride that almost left her falling on her ass. In his power armor, Danse was just about eye-to-eye with her ghoul, but he couldn’t have looked smaller if he had inexplicably shrunk down to fit in the palm of Viv’s hand.

“You knew the conditions before we left,” she warned. “If we’re too much for you to handle, we have no problem heading home.” 

The two men made no movement to separate, glaring at each other with enough intensity that Viv thought the air might combust between them. This was going nowhere fast.

“I know he’s handsome, but can you stop giving my partner bedroom eyes and let us in?” She sighed.

Charon shot her an exasperated look, stepping away from Danse as he recoiled in horror. Viv shrugged a shoulder and entered the Bailey, making sure her companion was properly behind her. Danse made no further move to bar their way, muttering to himself as he followed them inside. She didn’t doubt that he had direct orders to keep Charon and her separated, but she was not one of Maxson’s devotees, stumbling over herself to appease the every whim of the Steel Messiah. 

If she gave him an inch, he’d take the entire fucking wasteland. 

Charon lessened the distance between them as the gate began to roll closed. The Bailey was packed full of soldiers—more than Viv ever recalled seeing. The stench of sweat, testosterone, and ozone permeated the air of the courtyard as they weaved through a group running laps around the training field. Most of them were too preoccupied to give them any notice, but the hair on the back of her neck prickled with the stares of a few rogue soldiers too dumb to know any better.

Regardless, they made it to Maxson’s office unmolested. 

“Elder Maxson should already be expecting you. I trust you’ll be respectful.” Danse said.

“As if I’d say anything but ‘yes,’” Viv smirked and knocked twice on the door. Danse left them with no extra pleasantries and marched off.

When there was no acknowledgement from within, Viv tried the handle to find it unlocked. Maxson’s office hadn’t changed much since Viv had last seen it, back when it was still under Lyons’ reign: a battered terminal hummed on the surface of a sturdy wooden desk in the middle of the room, the peeling linoleum floor was covered by a threadbare rug of an unidentifiable color, and a BoS flag hung like a tapestry on the wall, dimly lit by lamps powered by repurposed car batteries.

Maxson was absent.

“Expecting us, my ass,” Viv grumbled. If this was a power-play, she wasn’t impressed. She hoisted herself up to sit on the edge of the desk, crossing her legs and tossing her hair over her shoulder with a dissatisfied curl of her lip. “How long do you bet he’ll make us wait?”

“As long as he wants,” Charon leaned against the wall, crossing his arms across his chest. His biceps bulged, pressing up blue veins that spidered against the pink meat of his exposed muscle. Viv followed their trail to where they disappeared under a thin layer of dark skin at his elbow—a lovely distraction from the irritation tangling in her gut. Maybe it was just the frustration from earlier, but she couldn’t help thinking about mapping his entire circulatory system with her mouth, engraving those sanguineous highways in her mind until she could draw each artery, capillary, and vein from memory. 

“What is it?” He groused.

Viv uncrossed her legs and sat back on her palms, tilting her head just enough to expose the bruises his teeth had left behind. Charon’s eyes zeroed in on the marks in the span of a heartbeat.

“Your veins are sexy,” she said.

Charon snorted and pushed himself away from the faded wallpaper, crossing the room to settle himself in front of her spreading knees. The image of him pinning her flat on her back, his head buried between her thighs as he devoured her on Maxson’s desk, left her feeling heart-wrenchingly empty inside. She lifted a finger, trailing it along the straps of his armor while her stare leisurely roamed down the hard edges of his body. She could feel the faint sensation of his heart beating steadily beneath the leather, wanted to kiss and scrape her teeth over the spot where the flesh and muscle pulsed with life. 

“Ever fuck on a mahogany desk before?” She asked. Charon blinked slowly at her as his large hand traced the bruises on her neck, thumb lightly stroking along the ridges of her trachea. When her throat bobbed beneath his fingers, his teeth bared in a viscous snarl of a grin. 

“Not yet.”

The door swung open and Charon evacuated her arms faster than if she had spontaneously burst into flames. She barely had time to mourn the loss of his heat when the sound of heavy footfalls alerted her to their interloper’s identity.

Elder Maxson strode into his office with all the authority of an atom bomb. His face was schooled into a mask of professional stoicism, but the set to his jaw betrayed his irritation when his eyes scanned over Charon’s looming physique.

“Vivian,” he greeted her with a stiff nod.

“Arthur,” Viv didn’t move from her seat on his desk, smirking as he marched to stand in front of her, nearly as close as Charon had been mere moments before. The tails of his battlecoat were nearly majestic—if only it fit his stature a bit better. The Elder was nearly swallowed by the fabric, but he still managed to pull off the outfit with an air of arrogance specific to the BoS.

“I’d offer you a seat, but you seem to have found one just fine,” the leather of his coat creaked as he crossed his arms. “I’m happy you could make it.”

“I have a hard time believing you’re ever happy to see me,” Viv laughed.

“Yes, well, you know what they say about desperate times,” he spoke more to himself than to her, but she could see a shadow in his eyes that left him hardly recognizable. When he looked like that, so confused and lost, it was hard not to see him as the 10 year old boy with gigantic shoes to fill.

Viv sighed and slipped off the desk.

“Okay, Arthur. Let’s cut the shit,” she raised a hand to his cocked brow to stop any sudden outburst. “I’ve known you since you were barely up to my tits. Let’s stop pretending to hate each other and tell me why you asked me here.”

Maxson’s lips pressed into a firm line and he nodded. He turned from her and moved to open the door, beckoning for her and Charon to follow. 

“Despite what you may have seen in the last few years, the ultimate goal of the Brotherhood of Steel has always been the safeguarding of dangerous technology and the perseverance of humanity,” He explained as he led them through the A-Ring. “There are many threats to the achievement of that goal, as you know. Mutation from radiation, FEV, pre-war tech falling into the wrong hands...but now we’ve discovered something much worse.”

Viv frowned and glanced at Charon, but he followed with an unreadable expression. Maxson led them down to the lab, to a small room sealed off by a thick steel door and infirmary curtains blocking the windows. He unlocked the door via a keypad on the wall and ushered them inside. 

It was a mock-infirmary. A single cot rested in the middle of the room. Beside it was a tray of surgical tools, an AED, and an IV stand. A man was laying on top of the sheets, thick leather manacles kept him pinned down.

“Arthur, what is this?” Viv grimaced, approaching the cot with hesitant steps. She examined the manacles around the man’s wrist, relieved when there wasn’t any sign of bruising. It didn’t appear that he was struggling, so why strap him down?

Maxson walked over to the tray of surgical tools, idly fingering the handle of a bone saw.

“Do you recognize him?” He asked.

Viv moved to see the sleeping man’s face—handsome square jaw, sharp nose, a full head of brown hair. Realization struck and she turned on Maxson with mounting suspicion.

“He’s a guard for Rivet City. Chief Harkness.”

“How well do you know him?”

“Not well,” Viv admitted. “I usually just see him on supply runs but we’re friendly enough. Why is he here?”

Maxson approached Harkness’ bedside, a solemn expression darkened his face.

“It would be easier to show you. Brace yourself.”

Without knowing what to expect, it was difficult to prepare oneself for anything. But, there was no way to steel herself for what came next, even if Maxson had described his intentions in graphic detail. 

His knife plunged into Harkness’ abdomen. 

Harkness jolted awake. A strangled scream filled the room as Maxson sliced his belly open. Blood poured out of the wound, coating his hands and the sheets a macabre crimson as he continued to saw through the meat. 

“What the _fuck_ , Arthur?! Stop!” Viv shrieked over Harkness’ wailing. Charon jumped in front of her, shielding her behind him as though Maxson would turn the knife on her next. Viv clung to his arm, watching in horror as Maxson vivisected the other man as passively as if he were operating on a corpse.

“Look at him, Vivian!” Maxson barked. Even if he hadn’t ordered it, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the morbid scene. Maxson peeled the flesh back and jabbed the knife inside the exposed viscera. “Really _look_!”

Harkness lay on the table, sobbing and begging incoherently, fingers twitching, entire body convulsing. There would be no saving him, even if she were to restrain Maxson and do everything in her power to sew him back up.

Yet, something was wrong. Something was very, very, wrong and it wasn’t just Maxson.

Viv swallowed back bile and took a shaking step forward. Even before she turned 16 and was allowed to start work on the clinic, she had read her father’s medical texts from cover to cover until she dreamt of anatomy diagrams.

None of those books had covered this.

The first thing that caught her eyes were the wires. Wires and tubes corded together to create faux muscle, attached to a metal skeletal structure with ball bearing joints. He didn’t have organs, just sacs of an unknown fluid that smelled faintly of oil, and an empty crimson-stained pouch was nestled near an odd steaming object where his heart should be.

“What...the fuck?” She whispered.

“Have you ever heard of a Synthetic?” Maxson asked, tossing the knife back onto the surgical tray. “My scouts from up north have described them as a growing epidemic in the Commonwealth. Machines with the face of a man, soulless creatures masquerading as humans.”

“I don’t understand,” Viv braced herself against the cot, sure that her legs would give out at any moment.

“These synths kidnap humans, assume their faces, then replace them in society. It’s believed that they’re spying for a greater entity: a faction known as The Institute.”

“So, what happened to the real Harkness?” She asked. 

“Harkness” turned his eyes to her, mouthing silent words as his fists strained against his restraints.

“We can only assume that he’s dead,” Maxson stepped between them to block her from the synth’s gaze. “Who knows how long this imposter has been here? He could have been feeding information to this ‘Institute’ from the beginning!”

Viv took a step back. The room was spinning, but she fought her way through the shock and forced herself to meet Maxson’s eyes.

“You have a sick way of getting my attention. Where do I fit in all of this?”

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten how invaluable your assistance was against the Enclave. You single-handedly sabotaged Raven Rock, killed their Colonel, I _need_ you to help me with this.”

Viv grit her teeth. Raven Rock was not a memory she wanted to revisit any time soon—if ever. She shook her head against the thought and crossed her arms over her stomach.

“I don’t see how killing a few soldiers makes me an expert on cyborg torture.”

“It’s not torture. All of this,” Maxson swept his arm over his captive emphatically, “is a programmed response. I promise you, it feels nothing. It’s why they’re so dangerous. But there’s another reason why I’m requesting you, specifically.”

“Oh, wonderful.”

Maxson ignored her dry remark, crossing over to a terminal on the wall.

“This audio file was recovered from a synth in the Commonwealth,” he explained. With a few keystrokes, the room was filled with a scratchy recording of a voice—far too familiar for Viv’s taste. 

_“This is Madison Li, Advanced Systems, testing command protocol at 18:00 hours. K7-56, enter diagnostic mode, authorization Theta-4-Kilo-9. Confirm the unit is online...Vitals are steady… Reflexes acceptable. Unit is clear to proceed to behavioral assessment. Log complete, 18:15 hours.”_

Viv stared at the terminal for what felt like too long. There was no denying the voice belonged to _that_ Madison Li. She didn’t know what had driven a lead scientist of Project Purity to the Commonwealth, but hearing a ghost of the past so suddenly had her pushing her breaking point. She cradled her forehead in her hands as an oncoming headache throbbed behind her eyes.

“You want me to track her down,” she said miserably.

“You’re the only one that knows her well enough to contact her directly,” Maxson clasped his hands behind his back, “I’m asking for you to find her and bring her back to the Brotherhood. Here, her skills can actually do some _good_ for humanity.”

Viv scoffed and shook her head.

“She was friends with my dad and she likes to pretend I don’t exist now that he’s gone. I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

“You’re a familiar face. Sometimes that’s enough,” Maxson placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing in a mockery of sympathy when she stiffened at the contact—his hands were freezing. “This threat is greater than anything that our society has faced before. These creatures could come for any of us. They could replace you, me...even Charon.”

Viv’s breath hitched, snapping her head up at the thought of Charon— _her_ Charon–replaced by a cold imitation of gears and wires; His body rotting in a pile of corpses as an automaton walked in his place, wore his grim expression, touched her with its unfeeling hands.

Charon ripped Maxson away from her with a snarl, wedging himself between them until her vision was locked on the broadness of his back—so solid and so _hot_. His body always felt like it was running high, as though he had stood at ground zero with arms spread wide and welcomed every splitting atom of the Great War into his veins. Her heart broke with the fear of losing that warmth forever.

“Do not try to manipulate her into doing your dirty work,” Charon threatened through clenched teeth. He stood tense as a Yao Guai, ready to lash out with sharp claws and dripping fangs made for shredding flesh. There was no doubt in her mind that he would kill Maxson before allowing her to become a pawn of the Brotherhood—but as loathe as she was to admit it, Maxson was right. The threat went beyond the Brotherhood of Steel.

The Institute could destroy anyone they wished with this sort of technology.

Viv rested her hand at the small of his back. Charon tensed as she pushed herself forward, a heavy feeling settling in her chest. She stepped out from his shadow and straightened her shoulders, donning the mask of the so-called ‘Lone Wanderer’ that every thrice-damned soul in the Capital Wasteland had come to expect of her.

“I’ll do it,” she said.

Charon rounded on her, grasping her arms so tightly the bones creaked from the force. “It’s a suicide mission. I won’t let you—”

“You don’t give the orders, Charon!” She hadn’t meant to shout, but the light fixtures overhead shook with the thunder of her voice. 

Charon’s expression darkened. He stepped away from her with a scowl, hands balled into fists at his sides.

“ _As you wish_ ,” he spat.

Viv swallowed the burning lump in her throat. She wanted to apologize, take his ruined face in her hands and kiss him until his gaze stopped feeling like acid on her skin. But, she needed to put her foot down if either of them wanted to make it out of this situation without being body-snatched.

He didn’t understand what losing him would do to her.

“I’ll do it,” Viv repeated, turning her attention to Maxson. “But, I have two conditions.”

“And what would those be?” Maxson frowned.

“The first: put Harkness out of his misery, at the very least.” Viv frowned at the synth on the table. He still gasped in pain, his entire body rejecting the mutilation without the human blessing of shock to take the agony away.

“It will be disposed of when the scribes get what they need from its data logs,” Maxson said.

“Then...can’t you just shut him down or something? He sounds like he’s suffering and even if he’s faking it, I can’t fucking listen to it anymore.”

“Very well.” Maxson strode past her to exit the infirmary. In a brief minute, he returned with a scribe at his heel.

The scribe looked down at Harkness with the apathy of someone evaluating a broken terminal. She flipped through a stack of tattered pages pinned to a clipboard, nodded once, then spoke.

“A3-21, enter standby mode, authorization Beta-5-3-Alpha.”

With that simple sentence Harkness, Chief of Security of Rivet City, respected member of the city council, just...stopped. His wheezing breaths ceased, body went still and rigid, and the hard-nosed man that was so beloved by the citizens he served looked no different than a cadaver. 

Viv closed her eyes against the sight. There was a part of her, so deep inside that she often forgot it existed—where hope and innocent naïveté held hands and lived in the joy of eternal summertime—that had longed for him to prove the Brotherhood wrong. She wanted him to show that he still had humanity despite the machinery that made up his heart.

He didn’t.

“What’s the second condition?” Maxson asked as casually as if he were remarking on the unchanging weather, as though he weren’t standing next to the desecrated remains of someone she might have even considered a good man.

“The second is in regards to Underworld,” she tried to gauge Maxson’s reaction, but his face remained neutral. “I want them added to the regular trade routes. Quinn can meet with the caravans outside the Anacostia Crossing station and take the deliveries into the Mall. I want them to receive the same rations as every other settlement, on the same schedule, and no more of this human supremacist bullshit.”

“The amount of extra manpower that would take would mean sacrificing security at the purifier,” he said. 

“What security? No one was there when I was almost raped on your fucking doorstep this morning.”

Maxson at least had the courtesy to look outraged.

“What?!”

“I have a gash on my head and a stain on my pride, that’s the worst of it,” Viv dismissed him, “but if you feel the need to prove that you’re not all useless, you know what I want.”

Maxson was silent. He mulled over her words carefully, but ultimately nodded his agreement.

“I’ll find out which soldier was on guard this morning and deal with him, personally. In the meantime, Scribe Loren will get together the updated trade manifests for you to look over in the morning,” he said. “Paladin Danse and his squad will be leaving for the Commonwealth tomorrow night. He will help prepare you in order to join them in time.”

Travelling with Danse and his lackeys did not sound like a good time, but Viv nodded her assent. Maxson extended a cold, bloody hand and she shook it firmly.

It felt like making a deal with the devil. 

* * *

  
A squire led them to a private room in the A-Ring. It was to be their accommodations for the night, as Maxson and Viv were in agreement that she and Charon were better off away from the eyes of the soldiers. The squire was about 11 years of age with cropped red hair, large green eyes that darted curiously between her and Charon, and a smattering of freckles like galaxies across his pale skin. He didn’t speak out of turn, but Viv could practically hear the questions screaming in his mind. She would have been delighted to give the child the unbiased answers that he would never receive from the Scribes, but the way Charon walked harshly behind her kept her from indulging the boy’s curious glances.

He opened the door for them with little ceremony and scurried off to the rest of his duties with Viv’s thanks chasing at his heels. The room was...cozy. It definitely wasn’t a soldier’s quarters. A single bed was pushed up against the far wall, relatively clean linens covered the ancient mattress. There was an old desk in the corner, a weathered chair on wheels, and a sofa pressed against the opposite wall. Maybe it was reserved for higher-ups, Viv felt almost smug for swiping it from some top brass asshole. But, despite the homey decor, the air in the room was tense. 

Charon shucked off his pack and kicked it towards the sofa with a barely audible growl. He didn’t bother to kick his boots off before he laid down on the much-too-small cushions and turned away from her, pillowing his head against the armrest. Viv sighed and set her bag down at the edge of the bed. He had every right to be pissed, but she thought he’d at least let her explain herself instead of ignoring her flat out. Even screaming at her would be better.

She unbuckled her armor and left it on the desk, but she stayed in her tank top and jeans rather than dress down completely. Charon still didn’t move.

“Charon?”

Silence.

“C’mon, Charon, at least take the bed. That couch is too small.”

“Is that an order?” He sneered.

“No,” Viv looked down at the moth-eaten rug. “I know you’re angry,” he snorted, “but I did it to keep us safe.”

“Safe?!” Charon finally turned to face her and sat up straight, his face a terrifying visage of bared teeth and burning eyes. 

“Charon,” she climbed onto his lap and cradled his jaw in her hands like she had longed to do in the lab, tracing the line of thick scar tissue where it met exposed muscle, “I won’t apologize for agreeing to go. If it’s already spread to us, it’s not just the Commonwealth’s problem anymore.”

“That doesn’t make it _your_ problem,” he said with a frown, but his eyes closed at the feeling of her thumbs brushing along his cheek bones. She kissed the corner of his mouth and he sighed. “Just stay close to me when we get there.”

Viv paused.

“You...won’t be coming with me.”

Charon’s eyes snapped open.

“ _What_?”

“Just for a while,” Viv bit her lip, “I need you to make sure Maxson’s men deliver to Quinn. You’re the only one that I trust to protect him if things go wrong.”

“Quinn can handle himself,” Charon snapped. “You’re not going alone!”

“I won’t be alone. I’ll stick with Danse’s squad,” she reasoned. 

It was the wrong thing to say.

Charon shoved her off of him with a scowl, barely catching himself to rein in his strength so she didn’t crash her head against the floor. Fuck, he was pissed but he didn’t want to _hurt_ her. 

Damn Maxson and his fucking forked tongue! Fear was a powerful motivator and he knew just what buttons to press to leave Viv full of doubt. But, how could she just leave him behind? He couldn’t protect her when he was more than 400 miles away. He couldn’t trust the Brotherhood to keep her safe and sane in unknown territory, against an enemy the likes of which they’d never faced before. 

He couldn’t trust her not to be a goddamn hero. 

“Charon, please,” She reached for him again but he smacked her hands away. 

“Don’t touch me, Viv.” His voice was the dull thunder of a gunshot piercing her heart. 

She yanked her hands to her chest, clasping one in the other as though he had bitten it like a rabid dog. She couldn’t have looked more stricken if he had just backhanded her across the face. Somehow, he felt like she would have taken his fist better than his cold rejection.

Viv took a step back, lips and shoulders trembling, and she turned her back on him before she embarrassed herself.

“Fine,” was all she could manage. She walked to the bed and pulled the sheets back, making a point to move to the middle of the mattress before pulling the blankets over her head.

Charon watched her walk away with a dull, throbbing rage that roared like blood in his eardrums. He fell back onto the tiny sofa, running a hand over his face with a groan. Wasn’t this just the story of his fucking life? Torn between what he wanted and the compulsion to follow his orders to the letter. He knew he’d stepped out of line when she had been negotiating with Maxson. For an agonizing moment, it had been _her_ on that bloody cot, her ribs snapped open like shattered wings with enough metal to fill a scrapyard in the place of her organs. He couldn’t help but try and knock some sense into her. 

Charon kicked off his boots and tossed the bulk of his armor next to his bag. The sofa _was_ too small, but he’d rested on worse before. He’d sleep it off and in the morning he’d make her see reason. Closing his eyes, he hoped they’d both be more level-headed by then.

His sleep was light. Images of her heartbroken expression flashed in the back of his eyelids and the sheer discomfort of his position left him in and out of slumber for the better part of the night. 

When he dreamed, he dreamed of metal and oil replacing bone and blood. 

He dreamed of Viv lacing her fingers with a manufactured copy of herself, kissing the clone in the soft way she reserved only for him. She turned her eyes to him, kept his stare as the other Viv tore into her, shredded her stomach with iron claws and yanked out her entrails. She reached out to him with both arms, arching herself into the assault as if he were the one between her legs. He fought to go to her, but the fake manifested in front of him. Dripping with Viv’s blood and viscera, she held his contract triumphantly with a smile that threatened all the horrors the world had to offer.

_“We’re exactly the same underneath,”_ _she purred._

Charon’s eyes shot open and he pulled himself upright. The dream still buzzed like bloatflies in his brain—but a dream was just a dream. He shook his head with a scowl and scrubbed his hands over his face. He didn’t dream often, and he definitely couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up with ice in his stomach and his heart thumping in his chest...he’d probably still been human back then.

Fuck, he needed a smoke.

He slipped a leg off the edge of the sofa, foot finding purchase on something warm and solid that squeaked under his weight. He jerked his leg back and squinted through the dark as his eyes adjusted.

Viv was nestled on the floor next to him in a nest of sheets and pillows. She was dressed down to her underclothes, rubbing the spot on her leg that he had accidentally stepped on. When she noticed him staring at her, she sat up straight and tried not to look like she had just been caught.

There was a familiar awkward silence that stretched between them. It was there when they first met, when she would dance around her thoughts and try and scrounge up something to say that required more than a single-word answer. Now, it tended to invite itself between their arguments, when both of them felt guilty about something but neither of them knew how to apologize first.

Charon cracked the stiffness in his neck and offered her a hand.

“Are you hurt?” He asked. Viv looked up at him like it was the first time, eyes big and wide, and so unsure. Hesitantly, she placed her hand in his and let him hoist her to her feet. She didn’t let his hand go once she was upright.

“I’m okay,” she said softly. Her fingers squeezed his and she worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “Are we still fighting?”

“No,” Charon sighed, “come here, Viv.”

She wasted no time throwing herself against his chest. Charon shook his head lightly, securing his arms around her waist.

“What were you doing down there?”

Viv stiffened and buried her face into his shoulder.

“I couldn’t sleep without you,” her voice was muffled by his shirt but he could hear the embarrassment in her tone loud and clear.

“And you want to go to the Commonwealth alone?” He scoffed.

“I don’t _want_ to go alone,” she pulled back with a frown. “Of course I don’t want to leave you behind. This isn’t an easy decision for me to make, but I need you to understand. With both of us gone, it’d be too easy for the shipment to get ‘lost’ or given to someone else. Maxson won’t follow through if I refuse to leave, so it can only be you.”

He understood. God damn it, he didn’t want to, but he understood. She’d fought tooth and nail for years to get Underworld the water they needed and now that she had the opportunity, she’d do whatever it took to make sure the deal went through without a hitch. He was the only one that would stop at nothing to make that happen for her.

“As much as I understand, that does not mean that I have to like it.” He grimaced. 

“It’s not forever. As soon as you’re sure the Brotherhood will deliver—”

“I’ll come find you,” he swore.

Finally, she smiled at him.

“You should probably try and wrap things up before I shave Danse’s head in a fit of rage,” she said. Her hands followed the line of his shoulders to his neck, fingers carefully seeking out the knots in his muscle from his cramped sleeping position.

“Is that supposed to make me hurry?” Charon snorted.

When she laughed, her eyes crinkled and stretched the scars on the side of her face. He traced the lines of jagged tissue with his thumb, though he couldn’t feel the difference in texture with his own ruined flesh. He wondered if they felt the same. When she was in the Commonwealth, would she touch her own scars to remind herself of the texture of his skin? As she nuzzled her face against his palm, eyes fluttering shut with a content sound, a part of him hoped that she would.

“Get some pants on,” he said. Viv pouted, tilting her head to kiss the pad of his thumb.

“Why?” 

“We’re taking a walk.”

“No,” She whined. She leaned in and trailed her lips along his jawline, hand slipping down his torso to play with his waistband, “let’s stay here and make up.”

“You’ll like it,” he promised, meeting her lips for a short kiss before he forced her up. She groaned and crossed her arms beneath her breasts.

“We’re at the fucking Citadel. Why would I like it?” She scowled.

Charon stood. He yanked her to his body and his hand slipped down over her shorts to grasp a handful of her ass. Her breasts squished against his torso, nails digging into his shirt for stability as she gasped. He dipped his head down to her level, tucked her curls out of the way in order to catch her earlobe between his teeth and trace the delicate outer shell with his tongue.

“You ever fuck on a mahogany desk before?” He asked.

Viv’s eyes lit up.

“Not yet,” she grinned.

Charon squeezed the soft flesh filling his palm once and then released her with a quick swat. He didn’t need to tell her a second time to find some pants. She scurried off to her pack with giddy peals of laughter following behind her.

* * *

  
  


The halls were mostly empty this time of night but Viv walked in the balls of her feet to be on the safe side. Charon took point, peeking around corners and waving her on once he was sure the coast was clear. They backtracked to Maxson’s office, narrowly missing detection by a Scribe heading to the mess hall, but the danger of getting caught only heightened her excitement.

She hadn’t felt so mischievous since she was a teenager sneaking through the winding tunnels of the vault after curfew. The halls were dark, but she’d known each corridor like the back of her hand, every twist and turn until she found her way to the auditorium—the only place worth going once it was lights out. That room was the main source of entertainment for the whole vault. The whole space was designed to be one of leisure. The walls housed built-in shelves full of old books and holotapes, a projector screen hung on the far wall, and sofas and cushions were scattered about for easy viewing. Most important of all, in the corner of the room rested the notorious sofa known to the youth as “The Cherry Popper.”

It was a gaudy, suede, vibrant red eyesore that was so out of place in the room, it begged to be defiled. Most of her class had lost their virginity on that sofa and she had been no different on the night of her graduation. Back then, she waited for her father to go to sleep before silently padding out of their apartment in nothing but her nightgown. Her stomach had been full of butterflies, giddy laughter barely contained behind the cage of her fingers as she’d entered the auditorium to find her partner already waiting for her.

Poor Freddie. He’d sat in the middle of that red monstrosity in nothing but his striped boxers and a blush that rivaled the upholstery. It was the first time for both of them and while Viv thought she was supposed to be the nervous one, she was the one who ended up trying to comfort the nervous boy.

_“It’s going to hurt right?” He asked. “What if you hate it?”_

_“It’ll be weird the first time, for sure. I might bleed a little if we go too fast,” she explained. Even in the dim lights, she could see his skin grow pale._

_“How do you know if it’s too fast? I don’t know about this, Vivi…”_

_“We don’t have to,” she offered with a smile that she hoped was reassuring, but she just wanted this whole mess to be over with. There was only so much more of the taunting chants of ‘Vivi the Virgin’ that she could take, but Freddie had been an act of desperation and it was no love lost if he couldn’t deliver. “I can just look at you longingly from afar and you can tell Butch and his buddies that you really, uhm,” she waved her hands noncommittaly, “gave it to me, or whatever.”_

_Freddie took a deep breath._

_“No. I want to do this...do you?”_

_“I want to,” she assured him. He nodded but didn’t otherwise move. “I think this is the part where you’re supposed to touch me.”_

_“Oh! Oh, uh, right,” he muttered. Hesitantly, he reached out with quaking hands and brushed the side of her breast through her nightgown. “Does that, uhm, feel nice?”_

_It was going to be a long night._

Viv tried not to laugh too hard at the memory. She wasn’t sure how Charon would take it, reliving her deflowering just before he was about to pound her into a puddle on Maxson’s desk. But, the stark contrast between him and Freddie was too comical for her to ignore. Her first time had been awful—full of much-too-light touches, not enough lubrication, and Freddie had finished almost as soon as he’d managed to get inside her. 

If she knew back then that she would meet Charon just three years later, she wondered if she would have waited. 

The office door was locked, as to be expected. Viv’s fingers trembled with anticipation through her hair, slipping a couple bobby-pins loose so she could get to work on the lock. Charon stood guard, keeping vigilant eyes and ears trained on the opposite ends of the hall as she quietly giggled to herself. They darted inside as soon as the door clicked open.

It was pitch black inside. She felt around on hands and knees for the battery to offer them some illumination. It took some fumbling, but she found the switch and flicked it, bathing the room in dim yellow light.

Charon leaned against the door. He only watched as she pushed herself upright and turned to face him. Silence stretched between them, the air tight and electric until he shot her a nefarious smile and reached behind his back. 

The lock clicked back into place as loud as a starting gun.

Viv launched herself into his arms. Her legs locked around his hips, nails biting into his scalp as he claimed her mouth with a bruising kiss that left her head spinning. In a few short strides, Charon had them at the desk. He swept his arm out behind her, smacking the battered folders and writing implements to the floor so he could press her back against it.

For all the trouble he gave her about finding pants earlier, they were ripped down her legs and dumped onto the floor as if they were offensive. Her shirt soon followed and her bare skin rubbed against the hard surface of the desk as Charon loomed over her.

She was lost in a storm of teeth and heat. His mouth followed rough, groping fingers that seemed determined to touch every inch of her. Along her throat, her breasts, down the ladder of her ribs, and further still until her breath hitched in anticipation and she watched with parted lips as he dropped to his knees in front of her.

Whether he had read her mind or shared her fantasy the last time they were in this room remained to be seen, but Charon hooked her knees over his shoulders and buried his face between her thighs with a low sound that thrilled through her.

He didn’t bother to tease her—this was probably as much foreplay as she was going to get, though she wasn’t complaining in the slightest when the flat of his tongue lapped against her. They were on a time crunch. The Brotherhood soldiers would be waking up within the hour and they still needed to sneak back to their room undetected, so she arched herself against his mouth, buried her fingers in tufts of red hair littering his scalp, and gave herself completely over to the mercy of his teeth and tongue.

The sounds he made between her legs were nothing less than obscene. A cacophony of wet sucks and rumbling growls harmonized with the moans escaping between the seam of her own hand slapped against her mouth. He met her stare when it settled between her legs to watch him, glaring at her with burning eyes— hungry and primal. The dim light cast shadows on his face that only accentuated the ghastliness of his flesh, like a creature out of those old horror tapes she and Amata used to watch after lights out.

And he was all hers.

His fingers worked their way inside her, probing and curling just right as his tongue swirled lewdly against her skin. It was at once too much and not enough. She danced on the knife's edge of bliss, lost in the sensation of his tongue composing against her sensitive flesh, fingers conducting her desperate moans that leaked out from between her fingers and threatened to blow the whistle on their whole escapade.

His lips closed around her and sent her spiraling over the edge, clenching down around his fingers with sharp breaths and an arched back that pulled them deeper inside her. Her pleasure rolled through her like soft waves lapping against the shore, left her toes curling and muscles twitching as the heat spread up her spine and through her limbs. Her voice choked back in her throat, a stuttered cry of completion tumbling over her lips as Charon sank his teeth into the meat of her inner thigh. Pain serpentined through her orgasm like lightning and she couldn't contain a scream when he clamped down even harder.

As the pleasure ebbed away, she was left with tender, throbbing skin that already glowed a deep shade of red. Viv hissed through her teeth as his tongue lathed over the wound and she jerked her legs off of his shoulders with narrowed eyes.

“Christ, Charon! That really hurt!”

“It had to if it’s going to last.” He watched her sit up to examine his work, all furrowed brows and glistening skin as she muttered curses at him. “I’ll find you again by the time that mark disappears.”

The annoyance on her face melted away. She looked down at the contusion in wonder, carefully tracing the unmarred flesh around the indents of his teeth where the pink of busted capillaries spidered out from the wound.

“I heal quickly,” she challenged quietly.

“Then I’ll make sure these bastards deliver sooner rather than later,” he said. He pinched her chin between his thumb and fingers and forced her to look at him. “Don’t do anything stupid until then.”

“It’s like you don’t know me at all.” Viv grinned and took his hand in both of hers. Her thumbs followed along the raised veins that disappeared under random patches of skin, and she felt emotion thicken in the back of her throat. “I’ll wait for you,” she swore.

A normal bruise could take about two weeks to disappear, depending on the circumstances. To lower the hackles of the ghouls and the Brotherhood and make them play nice in only two weeks seemed an impossible feat—especially when she’d been at it for a decade and made very little headway. But, Charon had his orders and come Hell or high water, he would execute them to the letter.

If anyone could get it done in that timeframe, it was him. Despite the hollowness in the pit of her heart already mourning their separation, she knew that he would set the world ablaze just to keep the promise he’d branded on her thigh. 

“Until then,” she continued with a purr, pressing his palm to her breast, “fuck me into this stupid desk until it breaks.”

Charon pressed her hard against the desk, pinning her with his hips and chest, and slanting his mouth over hers in a bruising kiss that left her lightheaded. His tongue snaked between her lips, letting her taste herself as he stole her breath away, kneaded her breast in his hand until she arched her back and moaned the last of her air into his mouth.

He pulled back with a smirk, just enough for his lips to brush against hers as he spoke.

“As you wish.”


	3. Stay Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are all so awesome! Seriously, your comments have given me LIFE. I hope y’all continue to enjoy this story as much as I'm enjoying writing it. Is everyone cool with the chapter lengths? I know they're a bit big, but I've been having so much fun writing them. If you'd prefer shorter chapters with more frequent updates, let me know.

As she left Maxson’s office with a folder of trade manifests pressed protectively against her chest, Viv held back a smug grin. That crack on the surface of Maxson’s otherwise pristine desk had called to her through the entire meeting. 

Of course Maxson had noticed it—it was difficult not to. He’d been examining the damage when she walked in that morning, muttering softly to the elderly Scribe Loren. He frowned deeply as he examined the items on his desk, as if trying to ascertain which could have been the implement of destruction, oblivious to the fact that one of the culprits sat directly across from him.

It took every ounce of self control that Viv had not to break down laughing and admit her transgression. The concerned furrow of his thick brows as he carefully moved some papers to cover the gash was almost too much, and even if she had folded over with tears in her eyes and holding back snorts of mirth, she wondered if she would have been able to gasp out an explanation.

As the negotiations went underway, Scribe Loren stood vehemently against Viv’s demands, arguing over the strain on resources a trade route to the mall would cause. Ghouls were not the same as people—that was all she got out of his spittle-laced words. Luckily, the agreement with Maxson was already struck. His arguments were moot, even if his Elder agreed with him beneath the surface. Viv considered that a victory in itself, but couldn’t help the cold knot that twisted up her stomach.

Maxson really was desperate. The grim expression he wore as he waved off the Scribe’s misgivings was enough of a buzzkill that Viv wondered if this was truly a suicide mission—her role nothing more than a sacrificial pawn to reduce the number of Brotherhood lives lost to this illusive threat.

When the bickering got to be too much, she let her eyes wander back to the curve of exposed wood smiling coquettishly from behind its fan of documents. It reminisced over the night before, recounting the exact moment where it had split under her back as Charon hissed his completion into the curve of her neck, snapping his hips in that perfect way that shattered her like a window in a blast zone. 

Their time in Maxson’s office had been as fleeting as the last breath of fresh air before diving into uncharted depths, and had left her bruised and sore in all the right places (and several of the wrong ones). Her back ached. The base of her spine felt stiff and twinged with each thoughtless movement, but, by God, if it wasn’t worth every sore pulse that radiated with each step she took.

She followed the hallways back to the room where Charon waited for her. Regardless of Maxson’s underlying motivations, they’d made out like bandits. Not only did they get off for screwing in the head-honcho’s office (she made a mental note to drop that pun on Charon later), but the folder in her arms contained the first real step to progress for the ghouls of Underworld. All that was left to do was ensure that Maxson’s soldiers were as good as his word and take down a hidden organization of professional body snatchers. 

_All in a day’s work for the Lone Wanderer and her stalwart ghoul companion,_ Viv scoffed to herself, _Herbert ‘Daring’ Dashwood, eat your fucking heart out._

Back inside their appointed room, Charon sat on the sofa. His shotgun was in pieces, spread in front of him on a table as he methodically cleaned each part. He glanced up at her when she walked in, hands skillfully continuing his task even as his eyes followed her as she crossed the room.

“Everything’s set,” she announced. Charon huffed a noncommittal sound and started reassembling his gun. His mood had gradually soured since they’d woken up, his responses dwindling from short answers to grunts of acknowledgment whenever she’d talk. His expression had darkened even further since she left that morning and Viv had a sinking feeling that their last few moments together would be wasted in brooding silence. 

“Maxson noticed the desk,” she tested the waters between them with a cautious smile. 

Charon only grunted again. He finished with his shotgun and secured it to the holster on his pack, holding his hand out expectantly. Viv looked at his outstretched fingers with as much apprehension as she would a centaur’s lashing tongues. Once he took the file, did he really intend to walk out the door with nothing to say?

“Can you fucking talk to me for two seconds?” she asked, crossing both arms over the file to protect it from his grasp.

Charon scowled. He looked like he might finally bite out some scathing remark, but instead he advanced on her with heavy steps. He reached for her but Viv squeezed her prize even tighter and danced just out of his reach. Damn him. He’d open his mouth even if she had to spear her fingers down his throat and claw his voice out herself.

“Viv…” His voice was the rattle of a snake’s tail before the strike. She knew she wouldn’t be able to evade him forever. He’d taught her how to move, knew all her tricks, but she wouldn’t go down without a fight. He reached for her again, anticipating her feint as she moved to duck under his elbow. He dropped his shoulder and hooked his arm around her waist, lifting her with one thick arm. Viv kicked her feet and squirmed in his grip, but all Charon did was walk her over to the sofa. He sat her on one lumpy cushion and took his seat beside her, staring at the far wall and crossing his arms across his chest.

“You want to talk? Talk,” he growled when all she did was look up at him. It was a full sentence at least.

“That’s not...exactly what I meant,” Viv shifted, thoroughly deflated. “You’ve been acting like you can’t be bothered with me since we woke up. I thought we weren’t fighting anymore?”

Charon heaved a breath through his nasal cavity.

“We’re not.”

“Then, what are you so pissed about?” She pressed.

“I’m not.” He turned to face her. His jaw was set, brow furrowed, those hazy eyes rolling with a fire that certainly screamed “one pissed off ghoul”—far too reminiscent of the expression he’d worn when he introduced her to his fury with the slap of his palm against her ass.

Viv paused, tracing the lower half of the scars on her cheek thoughtfully with her fingertips. She recognized that haunted, methodical, way his eyes took her in. The way his stare lingered on every fucking inch of her, as if he could memorize each pore and strand of hair.

He’d done it before the battle for Project Purity, watched her strap on her armor as though her fingers could signal all the mysteries of the universe while tightening her belt. At the Jefferson Memorial, as their voices thundered over each other, louder than the gunfire outside, he’d looked at her with the same expression right before his fist drove into her gut in an attempt to stop her from stepping into the irradiated airlock.

He looked at her like he’d never get the chance again.

She set the file down on the table and reached for his hand, pressing his rough palm against her scarred cheek. After decades of not being able to openly express himself, she supposed it wasn’t too surprising that Charon wasn’t one to talk about how he felt. As much as he had opened up during their time together, pushing him past his limit was like crossing a frayed rope bridge over a ravine—he would sooner snap if she wasn’t careful. But, as his fingers followed the curve of her jaw, down the slope of her neck, tracing each scar and bruise as if he’d never seen them before, she knew he was giving her his answer in the only way that he could.

“You’re still worried,” she spoke for him. 

He didn’t deny it, but he grimaced as his fingers dropped off near her clavicle. A wave of her hair coiled around his finger and he watched it idly as he seemed to mull over what to say. 

“I still don’t agree with this,” He admitted. “I planned to talk you out of it by now.”

So, he’d changed his mind about her leaving. She understood—her mind had been flip-flopping ever since she first made the decision. But, without him to be her eyes, voice, and gun, she had a sinking suspicion the entire agreement would go down the drain.

The simple fix would be to clearly order him to stay behind. He wouldn’t be able to dwell on his own stormy thoughts if she did and with his undivided focus on his task, she imagined he’d finish his mission in record time. But, the idea churned her stomach. She would rather convince him to believe in her than send him off like a drone—all vacant eyes like a cadaver and voice monotone.

She brushed the thought away and leaned into him.

“I promise I won’t do anything reckless,” She said. Charon shot her a pointed look and she flashed her most convincing shit-eating grin. “Don’t you trust me?”

“About as far as I can throw you,” he muttered.

“That’s probably pretty far, actually.”

He huffed— light, with a twitch of his mouth that meant she’d won. Viv shifted to brace her thighs on both sides of his lap, linking her arms behind his neck. He watched her mildly, palms resting on her hips as she settled herself onto his lap.

“You’re gonna miss me,” she accused gently, running her knuckles over the bumps of exposed vertebrae on the back of his neck.

“Like a hole in my head.” His tone was sharp, but he didn’t shy from her kiss when it warmed his scarred lips.

She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t going to miss this — miss him. All she needed was one more night...she told herself she could suck it up by then.

Viv pressed closer to his chest, gasping as his grip on her hips tightened and he wrenched all control from her. Her back hit the arm of the sofa, the pain already a distant memory by the time Charon’s tongue raided her mouth. She scraped her nails down the side of his neck, hooking a knee around his hip to lock him in place between her thighs. 

Charon’s fingers trailed up to grasp a fistful of her hair, still cautious of the healing wound on her scalp even as he tore her head back and dragged the flat of his tongue along the length of her neck. His other hand dove beneath her waistband, coating his fingers in the slick already waiting for him there. But, the sound that hitched in her throat as he lightly pressed a finger inside was sharp with pain rather than pleasure.

She was sore in more places than one it seemed.

He pulled his hand away and she whined, digging her fingers into his bicep to stop him.

“Charon, please…” It didn’t matter if it hurt. He could rip her apart, shred each layer of skin and muscle away, carve his name into her bones until he was so ingrained into her being, there was no separating them. She didn’t care as long as she had one more memory of him to keep her warm at night.

Charon shook his head, mouth finding that spot just beneath her jaw that always marked so easily. Lips and teeth branded her skin, his fingers slipping back between her legs just enough to tease her. It was a shit compromise, but she arched into his touch like the addict he’d made of her and purred. His lips trailed up, hot breath ghosting over the shell of her ear.

“Don’t touch yourself until I find you again,” he hissed, teeth nibbling the soft skin of her earlobe as she ground her hips into the pads of his fingers.

“That’s,” Viv gasped, his pressure growing more intense where he rubbed her, “that’s just cruel.”

“Cruel would be stopping right now.” Charon’s fingers slowed threateningly and Viv almost screamed.

“Fine, fine, okay! Whatever!”

He smirked, keeping his touch still the barest flutter over her. A brief stroke, then a pause that hovered just enough for her to feel the heat of his fingertips but lacking that delicious friction her body craved. He circled her, not touching her smooth skin, letting her feel just how close he was without giving her what she wanted.

“ _Whatever,_ ” he mocked. “I thought I was giving you an order.” 

Viv swallowed hard, wanting nothing more than to shred all her clothing and feel his hard body against her. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, nails biting into Charon’s arms as she tried to find the words he was looking for.

“A-As...As you wish!”

He swiped his fingers up harshly against her, and her relieved moan keened between them. His other hand wandered down from its vice grip in her hair, yanking her shirt up enough for him to expose her bra.

“Stay alive,” he ordered, tugging the old cups down to free her breasts to the savagery of his teeth and tongue.

“As you wish!”

“Stay alive.”

His fingers picked up speed. His other hand and mouth unleashed a tempest of bruising massages and bites to her chest. Bright red marks bloomed on her skin in his wake, a garden of stinging pleasure that had her curling into him for more.

“As you — _Charon_!” Her breasts heaved, lips parted to suck in sharp breaths as she dangled, trapped, over the edge. Her nails clawed into any strip of skin she could find, begging him to cut her loose.

“Say it, Viv.” He kissed her harshly, stealing the air from her lungs until it was all she could do to cling to him, lest she drown in the flood of sensation. “Say it. Stay alive.”

“As you wish. As — _fuck! —_ As you… _!_ ”

Her back arched, and a deep moan wrenched itself from her throat as she crashed against him. Charon held her tight against his chest, still working his fingers between her thighs until she desperately tried to move her hips away from the stimulation.

Viv still clutched at him long after her thighs stopped trembling, settling herself on to his lap as he sat back on the sofa. She breathed heavily, keeping her face burrowed in his chest where a dampness that didn’t come from sweat soaked into his shirt. If he noticed her shoulders shaking, he said nothing. Instead, his hands spanned her back, supporting her weight against him.

“You, too,” she eventually whispered, attempting to hide short, choked-back sobs. “Stay alive, Charon.”

“As you wish,” he swore. When she still didn’t raise her face, his hands ran along the curve of her spine. “Or...is it ‘ _whatever_ ’?”

Her head snapped up to look up at him, brows raised almost to her hairline and glistening eyes blinking owlishly. After a beat, she burst out laughing through the residual tears. She laughed for too long. But, the anxiety effectively left her body in a rush. As her cackles diminished to the occasional giggle bubbling over her lips, she wiped at her eyes.

Charon set about fixing her clothes once she calmed down, but she could feel from where she sat that they were far from finished.

“What about you, Big Guy?” She asked, hand reaching for his belt. His fingers curled around her wrist.

“There’s not enough time.” He might have sounded as disappointed as she was, if she really strained her ears.

“I guess not.” Viv sighed, resting her hand against the heavy thud of his heartbeat on his chest. “Well, unlike you, I hope you touch yourself every night while you think about me.”

Charon growled, muffled swiftly by her lips sealing over his for one more deep kiss.

Silently, she promised to the both of them that it would not be the last time.

* * *

The roar of the Vertibird’s engines was deafening, but Viv hung as close to the open hatch as she dared in order to see the whole of the Capital Wasteland beneath her. Her cheeks ached. The grin stretching her lips only grew wider as she began recognizing the landmarks they flew over. To the southeast she could see the Jefferson Memorial and Rivet City, places that she had just been now were small enough to fit in her pocket.

A firm hand pulled on her shoulder and she went willingly, her smile brightening.

“Charon! You’ve got to come see thi— oh.” Her expression fell at the sight of Danse’s stern frown. 

Charon was gone. In her excitement, she’d forgotten, still expecting to feel him look over her shoulder as he’d pull her away from the edge, maybe nag her a bit for her recklessness. Instead, she was stuck with the crew-cut.

“Miss Nelson, it’s time you took your seat,” Danse said. “It’s too dangerous to stand so close to the edge without power armor.”

Viv swallowed back the bitter medicine of emotion and nodded. Charon was down there, somewhere, traveling to Underworld with a file of trade manifests secured in his pack. He’d almost be back at the Jefferson Memorial by now, though the massive dome was now becoming a rapidly disappearing speck to the south.

Viv chanced one last glance at the world below. 

Growing up inside Vault 101, Viv had a basic education when it came to the outside. History lessons with Mr. Brotch were her favorite: American history, world history, battered maps full of countries she knew she’d never see besides the photographs in her old textbooks. Even so, she never quite understood the scale of anything outside the network of tunnels she called home. 

Ten years ago, as she ran through the narrow halls, dodging security batons, bullets, and skittering roaches the size of her thigh, part of her had been focused on only one thought: she was about to go _outside_. It was an idea as ludicrous as it was enticing, but nothing could have prepared her for her first step into the great wide world. 

At first, there had been nothing as she opened the battered door to the cave shielding the vault from outside forces. A bright light assaulted her corneas, thoroughly blinding her and setting her head aflame. She had screamed and collapsed, clasping both hands over her eyes and curling into a ball to shield them from the stabbing rays of light that still managed to seep through the gaps between her fingers. She’d sobbed, sucking dust into her lungs with each inhale before gagging and coughing it back out. It felt like hours, but it was more likely only a few minutes before the pain subsided and she was finally able to squint her eyes open. There was blackness, then a blurry mash of color that melted apart to create a defined landscape before her. She pushed herself onto her hands and knees to stare with wide, red eyes. 

  
The stretch of blue that loomed above her seemed so deep. As she stared up into that void her head began to spin and she thought, surely, she was about to fall into it. Her fingers had clawed into the “floor” for purchase, dust and rocks digging beneath her nails, staining her fingers a rusty red.

She had heard words like “sky,” “earth,” “sunlight,” and “wind,” but they were just as meaningless as a toddler’s scrawlings over a drawing. The only thing she was certain of in that moment of stabbing blindness was that, despite all the lessons, she knew nothing of this world that burned at a glance. 

If someone had told her back then that one day she would be flying through that infinite blue, the wind whipping around her with the ground hundreds of miles below her feet, she would have called them a liar.

“Will you hurry up already?” Rhys snapped. He sat with his arms crossed, upper lip curled as though she’d just ripped her pants down and gave him a view of her full moon. The Knight was the most vocal about rejecting Viv’s role in their mission, going so far to deny her entry to the Vertibird until Danse stepped in.

“C’mon, Rhys. We’ve all had our first time in the sky,” Haylen lightly admonished him, but her smile was thin. Despite her otherwise civil disposition since Viv joined them, it was obvious by the tightness of her lips she had her own reservations as well.

Viv’s hands scrubbed at her face, rubbing away any hint of emotion that had welled up in her eyes. She found her way to her seat and strapped in. The trip would be over in a flash—2 hours at most according to the pilot. The idea of being able to travel such a great distance in so little time was almost enough to distract her from the vacuous hole deep in her chest. She felt as if she were missing something important — something deep and vital like an organ she was certain she couldn’t live without. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers idly brushing over denim covering the dark bruise shining on her thigh.

Perhaps she’d become too reliant on Charon’s presence. It still felt as though his shadow would eclipse the dim light inside the Vertibird at any moment. He’d scowl and mutter to himself, so low that only she could hear the peppering of _fuck_ ’s and _bullshit_ ’s that he spat under his breath. He would have made any snide glance or disgusted grimace of her current party bearable. The similarities between the Brotherhood soldiers and the denizens of Vault 101 were uncanny, in that respect.

Back in the vault, she was labeled the black sheep before she could even walk. She knew exactly why that was now— born on the outside as she was, the adults must have feared she or her father would destroy their way of life. Maybe it was a bad point to make, as she and James had done exactly that. She bit back a bitter laugh at the thought.

With these soldiers, though, she wondered what exactly had crawled up their asses. Her relationship with Charon was clearly a grave offense in their eyes, but it wasn’t like she was carting them all off to Underworld and ordering them to drop-trou and assume the position. 

If this was the teamwork she could expect for the duration of their mission, it was going to be a long trip.

She could only hope Charon’s mission would have a smoother start than her own.

* * *

  
  


There was no such thing as a “simple” job. This was a law of the universe, older than the atom bomb, and one that Charon had inscribed in the forefront of his mind. Complacency and apathy were death warrants to mercs, soldiers, and even the scavenging wastelander picking through the rubble of society’s corpse for just a single meal.

Deliver the trade manifest, supervise the exchange of fresh water, then return to the Citadel for the next taxi-flight out to the Commonwealth. On paper, it seemed simple, and that alone was enough to put the ghoul on edge. His shotgun warmed in his hands, primed and ready for anyone or anything that might make the unfortunate decision to stalk him through the tunnels of Anacostia Crossing. His ears strained, listening for an errant cough of a raider huffing too deep on their jet, the chittering of mole rats, or perhaps the guttural snarls of a pack of ferals. He heard nothing but the stray drip of water from the rusted pipes lining the corridors.

Too quiet.

Approaching a blind corner, Charon shifted his gun into one hand and stretched his arm out to one side to warn...no one.

Words of caution died at the tip of his tongue as he glanced over his shoulder to the empty stretch of track he’d left behind. Red alert shook his body to action before his mind could catch up, twisting on his heel as though to chase the specter of his absent mistress into the abyss. It took only a second for the instinct of _search and protect_ to dissolve into a shameful burn in his chest.

Charon growled to himself and shook his head, pushing forward around the corner with his gun back at attention. Sensation twisted in his gut, an equal part familiar and foreign emotion — one that he suspected he would never be able to name.

Damn her.

Even long before he’d been named “Charon,” his only concern was to act however his contract dictated. Any rage, joy, or disgust he may have experienced was methodically stamped down to make way for robotic efficiency. Emotion was pointless as long as he could execute his orders to the letter.

Slowly, so slowly he hadn’t even realized she’d done it, Viv had managed to chip away his restraint. She could read emotions that he'd never known he had, made him far too aware of the disgusting flutters and twists in his core that he’d gone through lifetimes ignoring. What was he supposed to do about the knots in his stomach without her?

He shoved all thoughts of her away. Dwelling on her absence wouldn’t benefit him at all for the moment, and he had a job to do. 

He traveled through the night, reaching the Museum of History just as the sun was beginning to rise over the ruined skyscrapers.

Underworld hadn’t changed much over the last decade. There was only so much that could be done with what the old world had left behind, but with the constant maintenance of Winthrop the place had at least stayed liveable for the ghoulish residents. Charon only holstered his shotgun once he was safe inside the mouth of the skull, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Like the stench of death in the air, something clung to the back of his neck and left him constantly glancing over his shoulder.

Maybe it was the novelty of traveling alone, but even that seemed more like an excuse than anything. He didn’t have time to dwell on it once Winthrop hopped down off a metal stepladder, wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag hanging from his belt.

“Well, I’ll be damned. That you, Charon?” He called.

Charon nodded at his approach, slinging his pack off his shoulder and retrieving the file Viv had entrusted to him. He held it out towards the closest thing to a mayor his little settlement ever had and watched as the other ghoul’s eyes scanned over the documents several times.

“I don’t believe it,” he muttered to himself. “Your crazy little smoothskin actually pulled it off?!” Winthrop’s lips pulled back in a ghastly grin, looking up from the manifests and...searching. For Viv, no doubt, but his face fell when he noticed her absence.

“So, where is she? Don’t tell me…”

“She’s alive,” Charon filled in. “She had another job.”

“Good, good,” Winthrop visibly relaxed and laughed to himself. “Looks like it’ll be here sooner than later,” he read through the papers one more time. “Quinn’s in with Tulip now. I’ll pass these on to him later.”

“I’ll be going with him to make the pick up. He can find me in The Ninth Circle.”

“Where else would he find you?” If it was a joke, it fell flat, but Winthrop turned and headed for Tulip’s with only a minor limp in his pepped up step.

Charon walked up the familiar steps to the second floor. He shouldered open the doors to the old bar and it felt like stepping into the past. The place was still decorated as a bar, but it’d converted more into a common recreation area than the cesspool of despair it’d been previously. The alcohol and chems had been cleaned out years ago, but still the tables and chairs sat in their places. He weaved through a small group of congregating ghouls to claim the southeastern-most table.

His table.

Charon took his seat facing the door. The chair next to him remained unnaturally empty. He crossed his arms and leaned back, eyes drifting closed on their own. Exhaustion was catching up to him, he certainly didn’t do it to keep himself from staring at her empty seat like a fool. When he settled his pack onto his lap, it was to ensure the safety of his property, not because he couldn’t relax without her weight on his body.

Viv warned him that he would miss her, but he’d be damned if he gave her the satisfaction of being right. Even if time ticked by slower than the broken clock on the wall without her filling the silence.

It was odd to think that this was exactly where he’d laid eyes on her for the first time. She’d been nothing more than a nuisance back then. Just a small girl in a tattered vault suit. Dust and grime caked her face but it was still a far cry from the level of filth of an experienced waster. Her fresh face and untamed curls bouncing around her head may as well have been a neon sign flashing “ **Sucker** ” over her head. She was just one of many faces in The Ninth Circle, nothing but a gnat traversing a swarm of mosquitoes. Most of the downtrodden patrons were too drunk or high to notice a smoothskin woman in their midst, but some were just intoxicated enough to push the peace that Charon was ordered to keep in Ahzrukhal’s personal corner of Hell. 

He didn’t move when the ghoul approached her, his inebriated shuffling making him look more like the cheap horror creature he was. Even when she lifted up a battered photograph for the drunkard to examine, when the ghoul slung an arm around her shoulders and insistently pulled her towards the bunkhouse, he still watched from his corner. He knew what would happen to her: the same thing every rotted man in the room was imagining as soon as she walked in—but, again, he did nothing. It wasn’t until that innocent shine in her eyes darkened with realization, her small hands bracing on the concave chest of her impromptu companion in an effort to push him off that Charon finally had cause to intervene.

_“This way, Sweetheart, I saw him back here,” the ghoul hiccuped and cackled to himself, “right back here!”_

_“I don’t think —ah!” the girl stumbled over the man’s foot, barely catching herself on the southeastern-most table. “It’s okay if you haven’t seen him, really! I’ll check somewhere else.”_

_“C’mon, girly!” The ghoul yanked her up, “you asked for help, an’ I’m tryna—hic!—tryna fuckin’ help ya, y’know?” A necrotic arm hooked around her middle and lifted her feet off the ground. She screamed, kicking her feet out to topple several chairs and the table, garnering the attention of a handful of doped-up ghouls, their milky eyes zeroing in on the unfolding spectacle._

_The ghoul cursed, slamming her against the floor amidst stains and puddles of spilled liquor and bodily fluids that she was better off not recognizing. He reached for her suit, not a care for the murmuring spectators glancing his way. Some watched with rapt attention, others looked back into their drinks as if nothing was happening._

_Charon’s eyes flicked to Ahzrukhal, who only watched with a sleazy grin as the girl clawed and slammed her knee into the ghoul’s ribs. She shouted and squirmed, even resorting to biting the ghoul’s hand as he tried to silence her. Finally, his master scoffed and waved Charon on._

_The ghoul didn’t seem to notice the shadow spreading over him, but the girl’s eyes—blue as the open sky...when was the last time he saw the sky?—widened at his approach. He didn’t care to know what she thought, if she were relieved at his intervention or if she feared the worst, but when Charon lifted the ghoul up by the back of his shirt she didn’t hesitate to scurry out from under her attacker and hide behind him. The ghoul howled in his grasp, twisting with wild abandon and slamming his fist into Charon’s head._

_If there was enough skin left on his face, the ghoul might have gone pale. His eyes bulged, mouth dropping in terror as his fist crashed against Charon’s immoveable jaw. Charon’s eyes narrowed, a rolling growl rumbling through the air between them. He crushed the ghoul’s throat in his fist and dragged him across the bar, throwing him out of the double doors. The offender wailed and slammed into the second floor’s safety rail before curling over and tumbling down to the ground floor. Charon didn’t stick around to hear the splat._

_He turned his back, only to be met with the wisp of a girl standing in the doorway. She watched him march inside, eyes still blown wide as she seemed to take in the sheer size of him. She held her suit closed with both hands, swallowing harshly when he passed by her to take his place in the corner of the bar. A normal smoothskin would have turned tail and run. A better one would have managed it without screaming. But she did neither. The girl approached him with all the confidence of a kicked dog, barely containing the trembling of her shoulders._

_“Thank you,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady._

_Charon didn’t answer._

_“Uhm, so...could you tell me,” she removed one hand from her chest, reaching into her pocket to hold up the same photograph she showed the other ghoul, “if you’ve seen this man?”_

_He glanced over it. A family picture, it seemed. A grey-toned image of a young girl with wild curls tucked futilely into a baseball cap, hugging a toy rifle to her chest. The man beside her was older, her father, perhaps. They shared the same lopsided grin and the man had his arm wrapped around her with pride shining in his eyes. Charon snorted and turned his eyes straight ahead to watch for any more disruptions._

_“Talk to Ahzrukhal,” he grumbled, motioning to the bar with a short nod. Even if it weren’t the only thing he was allowed to say while at his post, he still would have steered her as far away from himself as possible. She was so pathetic, staring up at him with all the hope of an idiot as if she hadn’t heard it said countless times out in the wastes:_

**_Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here_ **

_He half expected her countenance to fall at his curt dismissal. Instead, those eyes brightened even more and she smiled, a row of oddly white teeth gleaming back at him, straight as tombstones._

_The vault suit wasn’t just a lucky find, it seemed._

_She was fucking doomed._

_“Really? Ahzrukhal might have seen him?” She pestered him. Real fucking bright, this vaultie._

_“Talk. To. Ahzrukhal,” he said._

**_That’s not what I fucking said_ ** _, he meant._

**_Don’t believe a goddamn word he tells you_ ** _, he would’ve meant if he were a better man._

_But she bounded off, all smiles and curls, to the bar where the slimy smile of his master greeted her with the charm of a reaper. He watched them converse out of his periphery, certain that whatever Ahzrukhal had to say would slither into her ears and rip the starlight right out of those eyes._

_He caught her glancing his way every few sentences. Once, she pointed her thumb over her shoulder at him, head cocked to one side in inquiry. Ahzrukhal wheezed a laugh and began to regale her with tales of his prized pet’s feats of brute strength and dumb loyalty. The mention of the “choices” that led his contract into Ahzrukhal’s grimy fingers hit Charon’s ears particularly sharply, but he had no choice but to grit his teeth and maintain his constant vigil._

_Someday, some glorious day, he would pay his master back for every day he’d spent in this bullshit bar. Even if someday was 1000 years down the line._

_When she left, tossing one more curious look his way, he wrote her off as another schmuck that he’d never see again. Some too-big-for-her-britches vault-brat that thought she could handle anything the big bad wasteland could throw at her...and she would die for it. She was more of a walking corpse than any ghoul in that building, she just didn’t know it yet._

_But instead of moving on to wherever her wandering was meant to take her, she remained in Underworld._

_Rumors swept through the settlement of the smoothskin woman splitting shifts between The Chop Shop and Carol’s Place. Some grumbled about her taking caps better used by the citizens of Underworld, snarling at the mere mention of her in conversation. Others were stricken with curiosity and ducked into Carol’s just to get a glimpse of the sideshow. Every few days she’d spend her evenings in the bar, sitting at the southeastern-most table where he towered over her like a sentry. The ghouls steered clear of her as she slowly nursed her Nuka-Cola, not daring to so much as glance her way and risk locking eyes with the Bouncer._

_After her first few visits, she started to talk with him. Nothing of consequence, stories of her time outside of the vault, marvelling on the outside world as though it were something bright and beautiful despite the ruin and carnage. She’d smile every time he rebuked her with his scripted response as though they were having a conversation, sipping her drink before continuing her tales._

_Months later (it was so hard to determine the passing of time when most of the residents didn’t require much sleep, but Charon estimated it had to have been more than 30 days by his own sleep schedule), after her bottle was empty and her stories had run out, she turned her chair to face him head on. Her eyes followed the line of him, from feet to face, with a calculating expression that made her look like a completely different smoothskin altogether. When she seemed to reach some sort of conclusion to an unspoken question, she looked up at him and leaned back in her seat._

_“You ever think about getting out of here?” She asked._

_Charon kept his gaze forward. Ahzrukhal was busy rubbing a filthy rag inside a scratched rocks glass, counting the caps of the day’s profit in his lockbox. He grit his teeth, watching the man pocket several caps before going to a ghoul too far deep into his jet-trip and accusing him of shorting the payment. It only took a mention of Charon’s name for the ghoul to cough up the extra money._

_His fist clenched._

_She grinned._

_“Would you consider coming with me?”_

_He looked down at her with a tight frown, unable to answer but he wasn’t sure what he would say even if he had been free to speak. The chance to get out of this godforsaken bar was something he wondered if he should have jumped at. But, if Ahzrukhal caught wind of this little girl trying to seduce his top thug to a life of adventure, Charon had no doubt that he’d be ordered to dispose of her in the worst way possible._

_Some part of him disliked the idea just enough to give him pause._

_“Talk to —”_

_“Yeah, yeah,” she waved a hand, the smile not leaving her lips, “ ‘talk to Ahzrukhal.’ No problem, Big Guy.” She stood from her seat and stretched her arms over her head. “But, for curiosity’s sake, blink once for yes and twice for no. You want out of here don’t you?”_

_Charon stared blankly ahead. He watched his master stash the day’s earnings — extra caps and all — into the safe, filled with all the chems he needed to keep the ghouls of Underworld drugged and complacent, hopeless and dejected. In that greasy sneer he saw all the faces of those he’d been ordered to put down just for looking at the man the wrong way. He’d coerced, murdered, looted, and broken too many men and women under that bastard’s command._

_He blinked._

_And he was fucking doomed._

* * *

  
  


Viv jolted up in her bedroll. Both hands clamped over her mouth, dampening the part of her scream that she couldn’t swallow back in time. Sweat drenched her body, sticky, adhering her tank top to her back and breasts as she pulled in deep breaths through her nose. No one else seemed to be disturbed by her sudden awakening. The Brotherhood soldiers all slept on, deep snores echoing through the old police station they’d established as their base. A small blessing.

Slowly, she pushed herself off her mat and stepped quietly to her pack. She ripped it open and shifted through clothes, ammo, and rations.

“Fuck,” she whispered miserably. Charon still had the cigarettes. She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the canvas bag. A cell secured by electrified force fields flashed behind her eyelids, the sensation of lightning coiling through her limbs buzzed beneath her skin, and Viv shot her eyes wide to chase the visions off. She yanked her bag open again, searching for anything that could knock her out into a dreamless sleep. Her bottle of scotch had been destroyed during the scuffle at the Jefferson Memorial. Three jet canisters rested at the bottom. She’d intended to sell them for some more ammo at the next functioning settlement...but they were looking more and more attractive the less sleep she got.

This was the fifth night in a row she’d been woken up by the nightmares. She’d suffered through them just fine but this was pushing her limits. Viv swallowed back frustrated tears and sat back on her ankles. In the dim moonlight streaming through the dusty windows, she could see the outline of Charon’s teeth on her thigh. She traced the rim with a finger, wondering when two weeks had started to feel like a lifetime. 

“Fuck,” she muttered again. She just had to hold out 9 or 10 more days. Charon would make good on his promise, she just had to make sure she stayed alive until then — and that meant getting some goddamn sleep. She still didn’t want to resort to the jet, as a medical professional the idea of inhaling fumes from brahmin feces didn’t appeal to her, but maybe a walk would wear her out enough for a nap before sunrise.

Viv reached for the zipper inside her pack, pulling her old Pip-Boy out from it’s pocket. It took Winthrop the better part of 2 hours to remove the computer from where it had been sealed around her wrist, but he’d modified it with a latch so she could take it off at will. It’d become imperative in keeping track of her limited wanderings through the Commonwealth for the last few days, and it would help her find her way back should she wander too far from base.

Silently, she pulled on her old Vault Suit and latched her trusty Pip-Boy 3000 to her wrist. The screen blinked to life with a press of a button. A smiling Vaultboy winked and tossed her a thumbs-up before her vitals popped up on the display. It felt heavier than she remembered, but she smiled nostalgically at the little walking avatar in the middle of the screen.

The day she’d gotten her Pip-Boy was the day her father had gifted her with her BB Gun. She still had it, safely tucked away at her and Charon’s home in Megaton. He taught her how to shoot, giving her lessons every day after school in the side room of the Reactor Level. Had he intended for her to one day leave the Vault? Maybe he’d meant to take her with him when he left. They would’ve become the father-daughter duo they were always meant to be on Project Purity. She wondered if he changed his mind at the last minute.

She would never know.

Maybe someday she would accept that fact.

After loading her rifle and stashing a few extra rounds into her pockets, she strapped the gun to her back and made her way to the front of the station. The entire place had been gutted, but she poked her head into a room marked “Evidence” for shits and giggles. There were cases and lockers galore inside, which meant there was a chance someone left her some goodies. She dug through her hair for a bobby-pin and got to work on unlocking the closest cabinet.

_Dear God, if you’re real, let me find some cigarettes._

The door swung open with a rusty squeak and Viv peered inside. Nothing useful sat on the shelves, only a couple baseballs and a framed picture of a furry animal with pointy ears, large eyes, whiskers like a molerat, and a long, fluffy tail. It didn’t look irradiated, so maybe it was a pre-war creature long since extinct.

Worthless.

She moved to the next one, biting her lip when the bobby pin caught and threatened to snap in half.

_Dear Satan, you’re up, buddy…_

Before she could peer inside, a clatter echoed from the front door. Viv jumped, grabbing her rifle and running back out into the hall. She slammed her back against the wall near the doorway and peered around the doorframe into the lobby.

Two people shoved the doors closed behind them. A dog stood at the heels of the smaller figure, growling low. The smaller figure turned toward it, kneeling onto the ground to cup the dog’s face in her hands.

“ _Shh_ , _calme-toi, mon petit d_ _é_ _mon_ ,” a woman’s voice soothed the animal. Viv didn’t recognize the language, but the dog offered a whine and bombarded the woman’s face with long laps from its tongue.

“See? He can’t resist you talking dirty either, doll,” a man said. Viv squinted through the dark and shifted on her feet. Not just a man — a ghoul. A ghoul that was wearing the most ridiculous getup she’d ever seen: some red frock coat and tricorn hat that looked more like it belonged in her old history textbooks than on a modern person.

“So it seems,” the woman giggled, pulling herself away from the animal’s bombardment of canine affection.

“What’d’ya say we find a nice busted mattress and I show ya what I can do with _my_ tongue?” The ghoul suggested with a crooked grin that glinted in the moonlight. He hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her to his chest with a playful growl, burying his face in her neck. The woman’s melodious laugh rang through the lobby. She wrapped her arms around him, arching into him with a sigh.

Viv flushed and ducked back behind the wall. No way. This absolutely could _not_ be happening. Through the blood rushing to her cheeks, she almost didn’t hear what the newcomer said next.

“Later, _mon beau_ , when we don’t have an audience.”

Ice washed through Viv’s veins and she chanced another glance into the lobby. Her eyes met the sharp stare of the other woman, who only looked back with an amused smirk. The ghoul pulled away from her neck, following the line of sight of his companion to Viv’s hiding place.

“Shit,” Viv grumbled and raised her hands up, stepping out from behind her cover to reveal herself.

“Well, well, well. Got ourselves a good old-fashioned voyeur,” the ghoul snarked. “You got a zombie-fetish, too, smoothskin?”

Viv grimaced. She slowly lowered her hands when she decided they weren’t about to pull their weapons on her, but between the two guns and the dog she wasn’t sure if she could call for backup quick enough. If diplomacy didn’t work, she supposed she could always just scream bloody murder and hope for the best.

“I wasn’t watching you to peep. Just trying to determine if you were friendly,” Viv said. “Are you? Friendly?”

“We’ll be as friendly as you are,” the woman assured her with that same unreadable smile.

That was something at least. Viv could be fucking cordial. Danse and his circus troupe of prancing monkeys on the other hand…once they got a glimpse of the ghoul, she wondered if they wouldn’t open fire.

The dog wandered over to her, sticking its wet nose against her palm. Cautiously, she brushed her fingers through its fur. With a low noise, the dog’s tongue lolled out the side of its mouth and it nuzzled into her touch.

“Well,” the woman said. Her accent was lilted, so unlike anything Viv had heard before, “if Dogmeat is flirting with you, you can’t be so bad.”

“Dogmeat?” Viv laughed.

“Yes, I know. He was named before he came to me,” the woman chuckled, placing a familiar hand on her ghoul companion’s arm. “My name is Evangeline — Eva, if you’d like.”

Evangeline. Despite the way her full lips curled into a kind smile, there was something dangerous in the way her piercing eyes watched Viv process the situation she’d found herself in. Eva tossed her auburn plait of hair over her shoulder, looking to her ghoul expectantly.

“Hancock,” the ghoul said. He seemed as relaxed as Eva, but there was a shortness to his voice that betrayed that they were not exactly friends yet. “You here alone, uh…?”

“Vivian,” Viv offered as he trailed off. “I’m not, but they should be waking up soon.”

She shouldn’t be so quick to offer information, she knew. Charon would have an aneurysm if he knew she was being even the slightest bit forthcoming. But, it was better to make allies than enemies, especially in terra incognita.

“And these friends of yours? They are as friendly as you are?” Eva questioned.

“We’re not friends by a long shot,” Viv looked to Hancock, “but, a word of warning: they’re a bunch of B.O.S assholes.”

“The hell is the Brotherhood of Steel doing here?” Hancock frowned.

“Actually,” Viv rocked back on her hip and crossed her arms, “you might be able to help with that. You two are locals, right? Know anything about something called the —”

A guttural snarl rolled in from outside. Then another. The three of them looked toward the ancient door in alarm. Several shadows passed across the frosted glass windows, hands slapping against the wood insistently. The growls came louder, more numerous, more hands scratching and banging until the door began to bend inward.

“Friends of _yours_?” Viv asked hopefully.

“Not by a long shot!” Hancock reached behind him and retrieved a sawed-off shotgun, quickly shoving shells into the loading flap. “Shit, thought we lost ‘em!”

“Vivian, yes? I hope you know how to use that rifle!” Eva pulled out her own weapon, the glow of a laser rifle casting the room in a hazy red light as she clicked it on.

Vivian cursed to herself and darted behind the old reception counter. She aimed the barrel of her sniper rifle at the doorway just in time for the hinges to give way and a horde of ferals to come tumbling inside.

They were fast. Faster than the ferals of the Capital Wasteland. They ran inside, slashing their talon-like nails and gnashing their teeth, saliva slinging from their withered lips as they charged forward. The first blast of Hancock’s gun sent one to the ground, its leg dangling uselessly behind it as it clawed its way closer. He bashed it with the heel of his boot, smashing the stock of his gun into another’s head when it lunged at him.

Eva’s blasts were enough to melt several that tried to gang up on her, but a few quick headshots from Viv’s rifle took out those that got behind her guard. A quick nod of thanks was thrown her way before Eva darted to her partner’s side, tugging a machete loose from a sheathe at her belt to slice the groping hand reaching for Hancock’s coat. Her back pressed against his, blasting another feral that Dogmeat had pinned to the ground, snarling just as viciously as the ghouls.

Through the gun and laserfire, the pounding of power-armored feet thundered from the hall. There was no time to explain the situation, but the discharge of Brotherhood weapons joined into the fray, shooting first and asking questions later.

Viv focused her aim on the door, taking out as many as she could before they could reach the horde flooding the lobby. There were too many...had they always travelled in such large packs? Her rifle was empty by the third wave, that click of rejection shattering through the carnage like a grenade blast. She went for her extra rounds, but it was just enough time for one of the ghouls to leap over the desk and onto her.

“Shit, not again!” She yelped, shoving the longside of the gunbarrel into it’s chomping jaws to keep it at bay. The knife in her boot was blocked by its legs straddling her body, brute animal strength pinned her beneath the snarling mutant. A swipe of its nails aimed at her head, but she turned her face away and twisted her lower half. With a quick buck of her hips, she was able to bend a knee and flip the creature to the side. They rolled across the floor, crashing into the wall where she finally pinned it against the cracked linoleum. The feral growled and swiped at her again with both hands, slashing her arm and side through her clothes. The stench of blood only added to its fury. 

_Stay alive._

Viv slammed her rifle into its head. It dug its claws in deeper, digging through her skin like fresh grave soil. Through the adrenaline, it may as well have tickled her. She smashed its skull over and over until the creature sputtered a thick, gurgling hiss and went still.

_Stay alive._

Another ghoul clambered over the desk, reaching for her with fingers like bladed radroach legs. Through blurry vision, she worked her knife free of her boot and slammed it into its eye socket. It wailed, spittle flying from behind its jagged teeth as she watched it crumple into a heap in front of her. Crimson oozed around the hilt of the knife, too deeply embedded to pull free.

_Stay alive!_

Soaked in sweat and blood, she pushed herself to her feet and reloaded her rifle. The worst of the infestation seemed to have thinned. Danse stamped one ghoul with his power-armored boot, flinging a ghoul that clung to his arm against the wall and unloading a blast of plasma into its gut. Rhys was clutching his shoulder, but Haylen covered him as he retreated to the hall. A dead soldier was slumped against the wall, covered by six ghouls that appeared to have attempted to devour him before being put down.

Eva retreated behind the counter, supporting Hancock with one of his arms slung over her shoulder. She looked to Viv with concern furrowing her dark brows. Blood was splattered across her olive skin, though Viv couldn’t tell if any of it was hers.

Viv took another shot of a ghoul that wandered too close to their cover just as Hancock hacked a worryingly wet cough.

“Kinda like...our first date, isn’t it?” He muttered to Eva, blood coating his lips.

“You could have just asked me for a drink,” she laughed thickly, her eyes shining with barely contained tears. She turned to Viv. “There has to be a...a...an emergency exit somewhere?”

“Up the stairs,” Viv recalled, “but there’s no way down from the roof.”

“Exactly like our first date.” Hancock groaned, clutching the crimson stain spreading from his gut. Eva shushed him gently, readjusting her hold around his waist to keep him steady.

Viv quickly assessed the damage before taking another suppressing shot. A few minor lacerations on his face weren’t too concerning, but the slash on his stomach definitely screamed S.O.S. from behind his clutching fingers. Injuries from a feral’s nails could cut deep, but it was usually nothing that couldn’t be fixed with smart stitching. It was the infection Hancock would need to watch out for.

“You’re going to need to make it up the stairs, Hancock,” she ordered. “I’m a nurse. I can help you but not while we’re still under attack.”

“Heh, you got it, Sister,” Hancock muttered, doing his best to hold his own weight. Eva guided him towards the hall, whispering gently to him in that strange language.

Danse sprinted past them, scattering energy cells across the floor as he rushed to reload his rifle.

“Everyone take cover!” He commanded, motioning towards the doorway.

Viv followed the line of his arm, blood draining from her face at the green light bathing the room.

A glowing feral shuffled into the police station. Boils of various sizes bulged on its skin, even the thick mucus dripping from its nose and lips glowed with the power of radiation. The ghoul started to twitch, limbs jerking as its supernatural shine grew brighter.

“Get down!” Hancock barked, shoving Eva back behind the counter.

“John, no!” She reached for him desperately, fingers grasping nothing but stale air. Viv grabbed her arm just in time to keep her from following, holding her back as Hancock threw himself towards their newest enemy with all the strength he could muster.

The ghoul howled, light piercing out of its mouth and eyes. Viv yanked Eva behind the desk just as the glowing one unleashed a nearly blinding burst of radiation with a sick, rasping shriek. The smell of ozone overpowered Viv’s senses, and geiger counters clicked in rapid tandem as the attack washed over the room.

From their cover, Viv could see Hancock squaring off with the Glowing One. His thin lips stretched in a smirk as the claw marks on his face knitted together, even the wounds on his stomach became as severe as paper cuts as his ghoulified skin soaked in the radiation. His dark eyes sized up his opponent and he cracked his knuckles.

“Oh, I’m _feral_ now.”  
  


With no other warning, he tackled the creature. His fist pounded into its face, but the more it bled, the more the deep gashes inflicted on his body healed. Once thoroughly dazed by the assault, Hancock unleashed a serrated blade and jammed it into the feral’s temple with a satisfying crunch.

Another blast of radiation crashed over the room. The force scattered scraps of wrinkled papers and rotted leaves across the floor like a small-scale ground-zero.

Then, all was quiet.

Viv opened her eyes, still seeing spots from the burning green light dancing in front of her face...or maybe it was from the blood loss. She gingerly pulled away the shredded fabric of her vault suit and checked the damage. Deep punctures from where the ghoul dug its nails straight into her flesh were scattered just below her rib cage. The skin around the wounds was already irritated. It would take more stimpacks than she could spare to stave off the infection, but with enough med-x, rad-away, and happy thoughts...she might only be out of commission with fever for a few days.

By the time she pushed herself to her feet, Eva had already rounded the counter and thrown herself into Hancock’s arms, kissing him deeply as though no one were watching.

“You stupid, vile, man! I should kill you for that!” She declared, kissing him solidly once more. Hancock braced his hands on her hips, his crooked grin disrupting her shower of adoration.

“Easy, Evie. A couple more kisses like that and you’ll be glowing brighter than this ugly bastard,” he laughed. “Gimme some time to decontaminate and I’ll give you more lovin’ than you can handle.”

Viv forced herself to look away. That emptiness she felt daily now opened a vacuous hole in the pit of her chest. Not for the first time, she cursed her decision to leave Charon behind. For all the good it did her now.

“Anyone got a cigarette?” She asked, turning her focus instead to the bloodbath littering the floor.

“I gotcha.” Hancock snickered, squeezing Eva to his chest once more before digging into his pockets. He held the pack out, even offering a light as Viv sucked deeply on the end, welcoming the burn of smoke into her lungs to distract her from the sting in her side.

“You handle yourself pretty well for a little lady in blue,” he said.

“I know a man that’d argue I’m the farthest thing from a lady.” Viv scoffed, smoke billowing out of her nose.

Danse marched out from his cover. His armor was broken on his arms and legs, helmet missing somewhere under the heaps of bodies. He took in the face of his dead companion and immediately began removing the ghoul carcasses from the body. His expression was solemn, but once he finished, he whirled on Viv with burning eyes.

“Explain to me what the _Hell_ just happened, Nelson!” 

Viv winced at the thunder of his voice, clutching her bleeding wounds in a feeble attempt to stem the blood until she could find something more suitable. God. The room needed to stop fucking spinning.

“We should probably take care of the wounded first,” Viv reasoned, then raised her free hand up beside her face, the life-saving cigarette between two fingers. “Found one.”

“Yeah, you’re not looking too hot, Sister,” Hancock chimed in. “You guys have a medic handy?”

“She _is_ our medic.” Danse scowled. Hancock’s presence clearly wasn’t helping his mood.

“Well...in that case,” Viv snorted. She braced herself against the wall, but a single step had darkness seeping around the edge of her vision. “Next patient…please...”

Her last lucid thought was how quickly the ground was approaching her face.


	4. A Knife in the Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I say I have worked and reworked this chapter to the point where I couldn't even speak English anymore, I am not joking. I knew what needed to happen in this chapter, was able to slap it all on the page, but then I was playing "cut and paste" with it trying to determine what parts felt better where and...Gods help me, I think I am finally happy with it. Thank you everyone for your amazing comments! They are so encouraging as I sit here staring at my screen, bashing my face into my keyboard and hoping it makes art.
> 
> I gotta wake up for work in like...5 hours but I needed to post this tonight or else it was spending another two days in my unfished folder. I'll come up with a title for it later.
> 
> Also: Mind the new tags. I know there was near-assault earlier in this story but...trigger warnings and all that.

Viv was fortunate enough to have never been trampled by a herd of brahmin, but she imagined the aftermath would be similar. There wasn’t a single part of her body that didn’t ache. Her head throbbed, hair matted to her forehead and the back of her neck with sweat. A stabbing pain radiated from her hips, needled up the length of her spine, and knotted in her shoulders. Physically, she was in tatters. Mentally, she wasn’t faring much better.

A thin haze of a barely broken fever clouded her mind like a hot breath on glass. The thoughts that managed to push through were just enough to explain most of her current predicament. The bandages around her waist were expected — the pulsing in her side promised a gruesome sight when she inevitably unwrapped herself. Through her swimming vision she saw the lines of patchwork flesh and the silhouette of a male form, exuding the calming scent of gunpowder and cigarettes. Familiar. Welcome.

“ _ Cha–ron? _ ” She croaked. With her throat feeling as though she’d swallowed shards of glass, it was a wonder her companion heard her at all. A cold hand checked her forehead as he spoke, voice slowly becoming decipherable like tuning into a radio station.

“ — down for the count. How’re you doin’, Sister?”

It wasn’t Charon, but this ghoul seemed vaguely familiar…

“Hancock? Oh...”

Hancock smirked and pulled his hand away from her head.

“People don’t usually sound that disappointed when they wake up next to me. Must be losing my charm.”

He laughed good-naturedly as Viv felt a little heat rush to her cheeks that didn’t come from the fever.

“Sorry. Thought you were someone else.”

“Charon?”

Viv nodded and busied herself with trying to sit up straight. Hancock helped her without any urging, bracing a hand against her back for support and pulling the lumpy pillow up behind her.

“She your girlfriend?”

Viv barked a laugh, groaning in instant regret as her side threatened to split open again from the force.

“N-No! No, he’s...he’s my partner.”

“Gotcha. Ghoul-friend,” he supplied, grinning as another laugh pierced through her. “Well, if you’re mistaking me for him, he must be one handsome guy.”

“Yeah…” Viv shifted, trying to ignore the way her hips twinged with each minor movement. “Anyway, you look better.”

“Aw, shucks, Sister. I’m flattered.”

“No, I—  _ Fuck _ ,” Viv covered her face with her hands, “don’t make me laugh again. It fucking hurts.”

“Alright, alright. I know what you meant.” Hancock took pity on her, lounging back in his seat as if he owned the place. “It was nothing a little radiation couldn’t fix. At the end of the day, you were the one to look after.”

She nodded slowly.

“How long have I been out?”

“Been a couple days. After getting a load of how your brotherhood buddies were going to patch you up, Evie almost threw a fit.” He grinned wistfully, as though describing a beautiful dream. “I don’t know what she was saying for half of it, but the look on that crew-cut’s face was priceless.”

“You two stayed here that long?” 

Maybe it was rude to sound so surprised, but she hadn’t expected the relationship between her and the Commonwealth natives to extend beyond their firefight in the lobby. Hancock didn’t seem to take offense, only tilting his hat back between his fingers.

“It was our fault you got mixed up in it to begin with. We ducked in here to ditch those ferals but...didn’t quite work out the way we’d planned.” He grimaced, tight skin growing even more ghastly in the dim light as his brows furrowed. “It was a close enough fight even with your help. Without it…”

He shook his head, expression flitting back to that lazy smile that seemed to be a staple on his face.

“You did us a solid there, friend. Even if we had taken off, I’m sure Evie would’ve dragged us back here within hours before the worry ate her alive. She’s one of those hero-types, you know? Always gotta be helping people, even if it kills her.”

Viv tilted her head, watching the way his chest seemed to puff up with pride as he talked about his companion. It was odd. He said “hero” like a lyric, inviting all that would hear to be in awe of his partner as he sang her praises. 

Charon had always spat the word like piss in his mouth. There was no point in saving other people if she couldn’t save herself —that was one of the lessons of survival she’d entrusted him to teach her...and the only one that she had trouble taking to heart. Even to this day, anything Charon considered “heroics” on her part would send him into a fuming rage. 

He’d terrified her, once upon a time. She’d seen his anger up close, cold and calculating, on the first day they’d met. Through the years, she’d found the limits to his restraint and watched in awesome wonder when that cool demeanor slipped and his fury became a tempest. For a while, she’d been too frightened of him to even dare piss him off to that extent.

Times had certainly changed.

“ _ Oh là _ , you’re still out of it, aren’t you?”

That wasn’t Hancock.

Viv blinked out of her stupor, surprised to have zoned out so easily. Evangeline materialized in front of her, a concerned furrow to her brows as she examined Viv’s face.

“I’m fine! I’m fine, sorry. I was just thinking.” Viv shied away from the other woman’s scrutiny. 

“Are you in pain? We spared what medicine we could, but I found some extra while I was out.” Evangeline was already reaching for her bag at the side of the bed, not waiting for an answer.

“It’s okay! It’s just fatigue.” Viv tried not to think about these practical strangers sharing something as vital as medication with her. There was no way she could afford to pay them back with the way things were at present.

“Are you sure? Do you have an appetite? I’m sure there’s—”

“You’re hovering, Doll.”

“Ah! Of course.”

Hancock snickered, smiling fondly as Evangeline took her seat beside him and clasped her hands around his in her lap, seemingly forcing herself to relax. She seemed softer, more at ease than when Viv first encountered the both of them. The other woman’s eyes were no longer piercing with distrust, and something about the way she tutted to herself reminded Viv of her father whenever she’d come to the clinic after rough-housing with the Tunnel Snakes.

“I hear you’re to thank for saving me from Danse’s attempts at first aid. So...thank you.”

Evangeline scoffed, waving a hand as though swatting away an insect.

“Soldiers are all the same. They think spit and whiskey will cure everything. Ah, but I should say...he may be needing some medical attention of his own.”

Viv frowned. Next to post-irradiated Hancock, Danse had appeared to be the least injured during the ghoul attack. He certainly hadn’t been hurting when he’d shouted at her as if she were one of his lackeys. Still, he was her main source of firepower when it came to this strange new land and it’d put her in a bind to lose him.

“Trouble with the recon job?” Hancock chimed in.

“Recon job?”

“ _ Ouais _ . Your Danse asked for help while you were recovering. It wasn’t far, so I went with him while John watched after you and…” Her hesitance bled into the idle tracing of her fingers across the back of Hancock’s scarred hand. After a moment, she cleared her throat and shrugged a shoulder, muttering: “I set him on fire.”

Only the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights could be heard in the silence that followed. Viv could only stare as Evangeline’s eyes darted between her — she was vaguely aware that her jaw had dropped — and Hancock’s mounting expression of impish glee at her confession.

“You  _ what _ ?” The ghoul howled with laughter, hat falling to the ground as he threw his head back and slapped his freehand against his thigh.

“The armor took the worst of it!” She defended, but Viv could see her plush lips threatening a grin despite herself.

“Holy shit, Evie!” Hancock continued to cackle, pulling his companion out of her seat to mold her to his chest. He embraced her as though they were the only two in the room and kissed her so freely, a sharp pang jolted through Viv’s chest before she could even guard herself against it.

It was stupid — the jealously filled her mouth with all the bitterness of biting into raw radroach meat. She knew she would miss Charon from the moment they parted ways at the Citadel, but she should have been over it by now. There were bogeymen to chase, a Doctor to track, and all she could think about was how empty and cold her bedroll felt at night.  Maybe it felt extra hard since Charon’s little order during their last romp. Bound by his command, she couldn’t bring herself any relief to stave off the longing tug in her chest that yanked her back towards the Capital Wasteland — towards him.

God, he’d give her so much shit if he found out she was pining for him like a preteen.

As if he could sense her rapid descent into the role of third-wheel, Danse marched into the room. Fully clothed in his power armor, it looked like the new scorch marks burned into the steel plating had done nothing for the stick up his ass. His eyes flickered to Evangeline and Hancock, upper lip immediately curling in distaste.

“Got something to say, Crew-Cut?” Hancock challenged, his smirk an inch away from dangerous.

Danse rolled his shoulders back to maintain a pristine posture that was far too out of place in the dingy makeshift infirmary. His cold eyes landed on Viv.

“I need to speak with Miss Nelson. Alone.”

“I think that’s our cue to hit the road,” Hancock muttered, patting Evangeline’s back to urge her off his lap. He picked his hat up from the floor and secured it over his bald head, flashing a charming smile Viv’s way. “Good job hangin’ in there, Sister. If you ever find yourself in Goodneighbor, look us up.”

“Take care, Vivian. We’ll see each other again, I’m sure.” Evangeline looped her arm through Hancock’s, tossing a parting smile over her shoulder as her man led her out of the room.

Viv watched them go, deciding that making a couple new friends was never a bad thing. Once they were out of sight, she turned her full attention to Danse and felt her mood sour immediately.

He looked like a bomb about to go off.

“Look, whatever it is, just get it over with. I’m tired,” she said.

Danse scowled, approaching her bedside in a fury too quick for her reflexes to kick in. He grasped her arms, ignoring her alarmed shout and slapping on a pair of metal handcuffs around her wrists and looping it through the bed frame to secure her.

“What the  _ fuck _ , Danse?!” She shrieked. “Let me out now!”

“I can’t.” The graveness of his voice was familiar. The same tone she had heard her father use when old lady Palmer’s cancer spread to her bones: a self-imposed distance laced with the regret that came with telling someone that there was no hope left — they were going to die.

The cold chain linking her wrists was nothing compared to the binding fear that coiled around her heart and dragged it deep into the pit of her stomach. She stared at him for a long while, looking for any hint of a mischief despite how she couldn’t imagine the man so much as laughing — much less play a prank on her. 

“Stop fucking with me. Let me out now, God  _ damn it _ !”

Danse stepped back, situating himself between her and the door. He wore a grim expression, one that didn’t bode well for her future health.

“I told you, I can’t,” he said evenly. “You’re not to be released until Elder Maxon arrives to question you.”

“Question me about what?” Viv scowled. “Is this about the ferals? You think I had something to do with that? I’m not the fucking Ghoul Whisperer!”

“It’s not about the ferals.”

“Then what?”

Danse leaned against the doorway, pinning her with a hard stare.

“This morning we received a message from the Capital Wasteland,” he paused as though he expected some sort of reaction out of her. When none came, his upper lip curled. “The regiment guarding the water shipment to the mall was slaughtered.”

Her chest went hollow, the air effectively knocked out of her as though Danse had driven an armored fist into her gut. She felt nothing but the heavy throb of her heart threatening to shatter with each passing beat.

“ _ All _ of them?” She asked. Her mind unleashed a thunderous roar that made her unsure if her voice really sounded that small. “What about…?”

_ Don’t ask _ , she warned herself.  _ If you ask, you’ll make it real. _

But, she had to know.

She had to know if the world was about to end for the third time.

“What about...Charon?” Her tongue latched onto his name like the talons of a deathclaw, refusing to relinquish him to the open air as though merely whispering his name would condemn him to a fate too horrible to consider.

When Danse didn’t answer, it all but confirmed her worst fears.

“Danse?” 

Silence. 

“Damn it, Danse! What happened to him?!”

She lunged forward, but the cuffs snapped her back against the poor excuse for a mattress.

“Charon,” he spat out as though the name summoned something foul on his tongue, “is the one who slaughtered them.”

The world came to a grinding halt around her. 

“That’s...not possible.” She shook her head slowly, as though it would lend weight to her denial. Danse stood to his full height, a dangerous frown twisting his lips. 

“Only one soldier survived long enough to report back to the Citadel before he finally succumbed to his own injuries. He told us everything.”

Viv squared her shoulders, lifting her chin high as he took a heavy step forward.

“He wouldn’t have done it without a reason.”

“We already know the reason,” he snapped. He stopped at her bedside, armored fists clenched at his sides. “Everyone knows the ghoul follows your orders religiously. That makes everything crystal clear.”

Viv barked a sardonic laugh. She raised herself up to her knees to better meet Danse’s narrowed eyes.

“The only order I gave him before we left was to touch himself every night while he thought of me.”

His red-faced scowl was worth the back of his hand striking her cheek. She sprawled onto her back from the force, but even the tears welling up from the pain didn’t dampen her glare.

“Good men are dead because of you! Don’t you dare make light of this!”

Blood pooled into her mouth, pouring across her tongue from where her cheek split, and Viv spat a thick glob onto the floor by Danse’s feet. At least she hadn’t lost any teeth.

“Where is the ghoul now?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she answered evenly. “The plan was for him to oversee the delivery and then hitch a ride on your vertibird to meet up with me.”

“This is your last chance to tell the truth,” Danse warned. 

“I  _ am _ telling the truth, you fucking—” Viv bit her tongue and breathed deep through her nose. “I don’t know where Charon is. Even if I did...at this point, it’d take a lot more than this to get me to even think about telling you.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged.”

Vic clenched her fists, her stomach threatening to evacuate through her throat but she gulped it down. She’d had worse than anything these motherfuckers could conjure up, she was sure of it. She hadn’t survived so much shit just to break under the weight of the Brotherhood’s boot.

Fuck that.

“Do whatever you want,” she dared, “but while you’re wasting your time with me, you better hope your people find Charon before he finds you.”

  
  


* * *

Charon tossed his last smoldering cigarette down to the rapidly growing pile at his feet. The orange glow of embers rimming the filter smothered out under the heel of his boot. He twisted his foot sharply into the dirt, perhaps more forceful than necessary, but his mood was as sour as the fermented remnants of tobacco on his tongue.

The cemetery of spent cigarette butts was a testament to his waning patience. Three days had been spent at the mouth of Anacostia Crossing with still no sign of the promised caravan, and the sun was rapidly setting on the fourth. Chain-smoking was the only thing keeping his feet rooted to the spot and not marching all 5 or so hours back to the Citadel, but his cigarettes were dwindling in number.

“Could’ve guessed they’d take their time,” Quinn muttered, resting his back against the wall of the metro entrance and lighting up his own stale stick of patience. He eyed Charon’s clenched jaw and blew a thick plume of smoke through his nasal cavity. “What do you want to do?”

Charon grumbled curses to himself. He flipped open his pack of smokes only to find it as empty as the horizon.

Viv was going to fucking kill him.

“Give me another smoke.” He tossed the empty box aside and held his hand out towards Quinn.

“Sure, friend,” Quinn took a long drag and grinned. Thin streams of smoke seeped out through the gaps in his yellow teeth. “10 caps a pop.”

“That’s a fucking rip-off.”

“You can afford it.” Quinn waggled his non-existent eyebrows and waved the semi-full pack in front of him. “C’mon, ghoul’s gotta make a living.”

Charon scowled.

“You greedy motherfu—”

“Woah, hold on!” Quinn leaned forward and squinted into the distance. “That your man there?”

Charon followed his line of sight, frowning at the blinding glare of the evening sun bouncing off of power armor. Three Brotherhood soldiers walked in formation around a large pack-brahmin. Their rifles were unholstered, ready for anyone that may try to lay claim to their cargo. The glow of microfusion cells pulsed dangerously across the surfaces of their chest plates, bathing the insignia of the B.O.S in a sanguine aura that made what few hairs he had left on the back of his neck stand on end.

Charon crossed his arms across his chest and grit his teeth. His impatience only grew with each plodding step they took. At this rate, it would take another day— maybe two — to make it to Underworld. Just getting the brahmin down the stairs of the station would be a massive pain in his dick.

_ “I’m tellin’ you,” Viv slurred, gesticulating wildly with a bottle of whiskey that had emptied at a spectacular rate, “brahmin can’t walk down stairs!” _

_ Charon ran a hand over his face and groaned. What started as tearful blubbering over molerats (“they’re  _ so cold _ , Charon!”) had somehow morphed into a lecture on brahmin knees and why they’d make poor housepets — which, to Viv’s inebriated logic, had more to do with being unable to transport the beast to and from their bedroom than the more obvious obstacles to housetraining cattle. _

_ “You’re cut off.” He snatched the bottle from her hand, depositing it out of her reach on top of the derelict refrigerator in the kitchen.  _

_ “You can’t punish me for being right!” She cried, sprawling over the arm of the sofa. “This is oppresh... oppression!” _

_ “You don’t even know what that means right now.” Charon scooped her up with one arm, slinging her over his shoulder. He silently prayed to whatever god man hadn’t managed to kill that she wouldn’t vomit down the back of his shirt. _

_ “You can’t sto—hic!— stop me by bringin’ me upstairs!” She kicked her legs against his chest, hissing a warning through her teeth: “my knees bend the right way!” _

He wished he could say it was the stupidest thing they’d ever argued about. Still, as he watched the two-headed bovine trudge along the broken road, all he could think of was Viv’s whiskey-crazed glare as she howled about the knees, the knees,  _ the fucking knees _ .

If she was proven right, he’d eat the business end of his shotgun.

Quinn tossed his cigarette aside and watched the approaching battalion with apprehension.

“Think this’ll be as easy as it should be?” He asked.

“They sent soldiers instead of a caravan,” Charon sneered, eyeing the covered wagon being pulled along by the beast of burden, “they never meant to make it easy.”

“How do you want to do this?”

“Viv worked too hard for this all to go to shit. Give them a chance to do this right,” Charon said, against all better judgement. Something had been wrong since he and Viv parted ways at the Citadel. He still couldn’t put his finger on it, but the chill of dread had been settling in his bones like an old friend. He’d lived too long not to take that gut feeling seriously.

“Whatever you say.” Quinn didn’t sound too thrilled by the idea, but the same knowledge stilled his trigger finger as well as any physical restraint.

Underworld was dying. Without a steady supply of clean water, they’d become a city of corpses in truth. Already, their numbers had dwindled to a skeleton crew of citizens barely enough to keep an economy going in their little corner of the wastes. They couldn’t afford to lose more.

One soldier marched ahead of the others, stopping several feet away as he looked back and forth between Charon and Quinn. His helmet hid his expression, but Charon could guess what it looked like underneath the visor.

“Paladin Moore of the Brotherhood of Steel. Are you the Nelson party?”

“That’s us.” Quinn stepped forward, scooping his pack off the ground and retrieving the manifest Charon had delivered earlier that week. He offered it for Moore’s perusal, but it went ignored.

“We were supposed to turn the package over to one ghoul, not two.”

“What does that matter?” Charon snapped.

“We have orders.”

“What my friend is trying to say,” Quinn stepped between them, two placating hands held up to keep the men separated, “is ‘the more help, the better’ right?”

Moore glanced back at his squad for a beat, then turned back to Quinn with robotic fluidity.

“Then, you’ll have no problem if we escort the package the rest of the way.” His voice was laced with the illusion of suggestion but there was no room for negotiation. There was the briefest hint of smug satisfaction, no doubt at the knowledge that he held both ghouls by the balls.

There was only one smoothskin Charon knew that actually found any sort of joy in that.

“The more help, the better,” Quinn repeated through a strained smile.

Moore motioned for them to lead the way and barked an order to his companions.

Charon nodded toward the gate at the bottom of the concrete stairs, following Quinn down to make an entrance wide enough for the animal. The gate creaked as they pulled it as wide as its ancient hinges would allow, but even then it would be a tight squeeze.

Up top, the brahmin bellowed in protest, stamping its hooves on the ground as the soldiers attempted to coax it down the stairs. It shook its heads in agitation, holding firm even as they tugged the ropes looped around its necks and attempted to use their combined augmented strength to move it. It took some less-than-gentle persuasion to get the animal to start its slow descent into the underground, the cart was even more of a hassle, but it was the broken escalators inside the station that were the real nightmare. The steps were too steep, too narrow, and by the time they had convinced the beast to back up enough to find another way down, it decided that moment was the most opportune time to rest. It folded its legs underneath its body and brayed a threatening sound at anyone that got too close.

Charon grimly thought he might deep-throat his gun after all.

It took another hour to convince the stubborn animal to keep going, and no small amount of ingenuity to guide it down to the tracks. A collapsed wall acted as a ramp down to the tunnels, far from preferable but with the five men urging it on, the brahmin and the cart made it down unscathed. It was a surprising display of teamwork, short-lived as it was. 

The rest of their journey through the labyrinthian tunnels was spent in a tense, nearly absolute silence. Moore and his men kept to themselves, flanking their makeshift convoy while they spoke intermittently in hushed tones — too low to hear the words, but loud enough that it grated on Charon’s nerves. The senses honed from over a century of battle were on high alert, setting his entire body on edge as they muttered to each other under the cover of footsteps and the occasional cattle flatulence.

Quinn seemed to feel it, too. When he approached the cart to inspect their cargo, he was warned off by Moore with the excuse that the crates would not be able to be resealed once they were opened, insisting to a high risk of losing items during the journey.

“Something stinks, and it ain’t coming from the fucking bull,” he muttered after they’d formed a makeshift camp on one of the maintenance platforms.

Charon grunted his agreement, settling down with his back against a wall and watching the soldiers out of the corner of his eye. They spoke about watch rotation, clearly not trusting the ghouls enough to loop them in. Not that it mattered much. Ghoulification ensured that neither of them needed sleep for a few more days, at least.

They would just have to keep wary eyes trained on each other.

“I mean it. Something’s not right.” Quinn squatted down beside him, lighting a cigarette between his lips. He blew out an agitated cloud of smoke and vaguely motioned towards the brahmin. “They didn’t even show us the goods. I’ve dealt with some shady shit in my time, and this is fucking out there. Top ten.”

Charon frowned. He watched Moore take up the mantle of first guard, weapon out and prepared for any straggling feral or raider to come traipsing across their little camp. The cart had been parked against the far wall, right in the Paladin’s direct line of sight. 

“We gotta see inside those crates,” Quinn whispered, jabbing the smoldering remains of his cigarette butt into the concrete. “I’ll eat crow if I have to, but I won’t be able to take it easy until I’m proven wrong.”

Quinn was far more familiar with this type of exchange and had a nose for deals about to sour. Charon couldn’t see any reason to disagree. It wasn’t a decision to be made lightly — the success of this transport relied on civil relations between the Brotherhood and Underworld. Any misstep on either side could end their fragile truce, and Charon wasn’t sure how Viv would take it if he and Quinn ended up being the instigators.

That odd, half-empty space in the pit of his chest told him she’d probably understand. She already didn’t trust them, that’s why she sent him. He was dutifully acting on the orders she’d given him, and that thought strengthened his resolve.

“I’ll distract them. You see what we’re carrying,” he said, eyes narrowing as Quinn barely muffled a bark of laughter.

“What’re you gonna do, brood them into submission?” Quinn snickered quietly to himself and shook his head. “Leave the tin cans to me. You muscle your way into the crates once they’re out of sight.”

Charon grumbled his agreement. Quinn was a professional bullshitter, quick on his feet, but Charon would have to be quicker if he was going to take full stock of what they were transporting. The Brotherhood didn’t employ idiots — and nothing was more dangerous than a bigot with a brain. If they caught so much as a whiff of the ghouls’ suspicion, Charon didn’t doubt they’d end their journey together with a firefight just on principle.

He didn’t know what to expect when Quinn announced that he was going to take a leak and ducked down a service tunnel, slipping out of sight with the soldiers none the wiser. One of the soldiers actually seemed to have dozed off by the time an explosion rattled the old railway. Debris fell from the ceiling, smoke billowing through the tunnels from the south.

As far as distractions went, he had seen worse.

The brahmin bellowed and shot to its feet in a panic. Charon darted forward and snatched its reins before it could flee, wrestling the creature into submission as Moore barked orders to his men, charging his rifle as though he expected an ambush. His helmet turned Charon’s way in the midst of the chaos. It seemed like he would stay behind, but a shout of “ _ Fire! _ ” from ahead caught his attention and Moore charged forward to assist his subordinates.

Charon made sure he was completely out of sight before securing the beast to a thick exhaust pipe sticking out of the wall and starting his task. He threw the canopy of the wagon back and hopped inside. Between his height and the crates stacked across the floor, mobility was limited, but he was on borrowed time and needed to work fast. He stumbled more than once in his urgency and feeling through the darkness wasn’t the best way to seek out information, but he’d make it work. 

If Viv were there, she’d slip on that Pip-boy of hers and give him some light — not without some light-hearted teasing, he was sure.

“ _ What would you do without me? _ ” Her purring voice was somehow deep in his ears through the distant shouting of the soldiers. The ghost of her fingers trailed along his jaw and, if he closed his eyes, he knew he’d probably see that cocky grin stretching the scars on her face. If she were still with him, he wondered if the Brotherhood would have pushed to escort them to Underworld. He liked to think that her presence would have helped him avoid fumbling around in the dark wagon while another explosion shook the tunnel. Though, she probably would have spent the entire trip pestering him to fuck her in it.

Charon snorted to himself at the thought and pulled out his lighter. A flame sparked to life with a scrape of his thumb, bathing the wagon in a dim orange glow. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. He shoved the blade of his knife beneath the lid of a crate and cracked it open. He almost expected it to be empty.

“ _ Shit _ !” 

He lifted the flame high and backpedaled. If his sweat glands worked, he might have broken out into a cold sweat at the stack of explosives piled inside. Tension coiled in his gut as he revealed case after case of live ammunition, guns, grenades...more than enough to supply a Brotherhood battalion several times over.

More than enough to slaughter the entire population of Underworld — and not a drop of water to be found.

Was this what it felt like to go feral? His vision narrowed, seeped at the edges with crimson as his thundering heart pounded in the pits of his ear drums. He flung the canopy back, tearing out of the wagon like a storm. His palms itched for the weight of his shotgun, blood boiling with the demand for retribution.

It took two steps before he felt the barrel of a rifle jam into his side. He twisted on his heel, but the scent of burning flesh filled his nostrils and whited out that vignette of rage clouding his sight.

He had seen his life flash before his eyes far too many times for it to be considered a spiritual experience. The memories that often plagued his near-final moments were filled with over a century of his contract passing from one hand to another, men and women eager to use his talents and experience for their own personal gain. Decades spent murdering, coercing, threatening, slaughtering, and plundering flashed across his mind like an old film reel. There were people that would kill to live as long as he had and the time felt squandered — wasted by the whims of those that believed they could set the value of a human life.

500 caps.

800 caps.

Bet and lost in a game of Caravan.

Traded for a blowjob and a barrel of aged whiskey.

But, it was 1000 caps that had labeled him as a commodity. Paid by a man dressed in shabby pre-war evening wear with patches sewn on the elbows. He insisted on being called the “General.” He toted Charon around like a prized pet, eager to show off his “freak” to the other smoothskins that acted like high society in his home of Tenpenny Tower.

Then, there was his wife. She might have been considered pretty with clean skin and her hair perfectly styled in a smart bob, and much too young to be married to the man who held his contract. In public, she acted like the perfect housewife and got everything her wretched little heart desired from her husband. The first time she insisted Charon be her escort to the market, his employer graciously allowed it. But, Charon had a suspicion that he wasn’t aware of the sudden detour to the vacant room on the top floor. 

She led him inside the dark, dusty room, peeking over her shoulder as if she expected them to be followed. As soon as the door closed behind them, her cold hands flew to his belt, yanking his pants down his thighs and gripping his flaccid dick like she was about to bludgeon him with it. 

_ “You’re one ugly bastard, aren’t you?” _ She purred as if she were saying something sweet into the hollow of his throat. He’d wanted to shove her away, but his orders had been made very clear before they left the General’s suite: “Mind what she tells you and don’t let any harm come to her.”

He didn’t trust himself not to kill her. All he could do was grab her wrist, hissing out a harsh “no” between his teeth to control his grip on her delicate skin. She’d looked up at him as if he’d backhanded her across the face.

_ “You should just be glad a woman like me is considering fucking you, monster!” _ She’d been outraged but his denial of her only seemed to egg her on. With a barked order to lay on his back, she’d hiked her skirt up around her hips and taken what she wanted from him.

Each following visit to that musty apartment started the same way: with her harpy talons wrapped around his unenthused genitals, working him until his body didn’t know what else to do except respond. His violation was spent staring at the balcony outside the window, fantasizing about dragging the bitch out by her throat and tossing her over the edge for the way she used him.

Fetishized him.

Proved just how powerless he really was.

It was six months before his employer burst into the vacant room, teeth bared and face crimson. The aftermath was swift. The woman fled to her husband's arms in tears, lipstick smeared across her face and dress hanging off her shoulders. She accused Charon of overpowering her, of threatening to murder them both if she spoke a single word about the abuse. There were talks of killing him, but none of the foppish residents of the tower had the stomach to stain their hands with blood. It was the suggestion of one man — his name was long forgotten if Charon had ever known it — that Charon be sent to be with his own kind, clearly too rabid to be around “polite society.”

So, he’d been ordered to go to Underworld and a new type of hell began in the Ninth Circle, where his “choices” landed him right in the grimy palms of Ahzrukhal.

Fuck, he’d be damned if that was the memory he died with. His life had always been shit, but now...well, it was still shit but it was bearable. It felt like a real life— as close as he would ever get — and it was being filled with selfish desires he’d never dreamed to indulge in before. 

Filled with gentle laughter, soft touches, and teasing glances over a freckled shoulder. 

Filled with shared drinks at the saloon and stupid arguments over brahmin knees.

Filled with…

_ I like you... _

Charon screwed his eyes shut, the ringing in his ears increasing to a wailing siren that made his head ache. His feet swayed beneath him, the concrete beneath his boots as stable as a sand dune, yet as the warmth of another impending shot warmed against his face, he pushed himself away from the wall he’d fallen against. The blast burned into the concrete behind him, showering his back with rubble as he caught himself on hands and knees. He forced himself to keep moving, scrambling to his feet and reaching for his gun. 

There was no time to think or formulate a plan. He gave himself over to instinct as the copper scent of blood filled his senses. His legs knew where to take him. His arms knew where to aim. Even the feeling of lasers searing through his skin did little to slow him down while he showered blast after blast of lead over his targets. Distantly, he heard Quinn shout and the crack of a rifle join in with his assault.

He didn’t stop until his shotgun emptied. Standing over a downed hunk of power armor, his shoulders heaving with heavy breaths as he watched thick streams of crimson leak out from between the spaces in the armor, he pulled his trigger one more time despite the unsatisfying click of an empty chamber. He snarled, pumping the slide and scattering spent shells into the sanguineous pool at his feet.

“You good?” Quinn called from the tracks.

Charon glanced his way, eyes scanning over the other two bodies laying in mangled heaps on the concrete before landing on the other ghoul. He looked none the worse for wear, a small burn near his cheek, more ruffled than anything. Quinn was quick and there was no way the mobile suits of scrap would be able to keep up with him on his worst day.

It was expected, but offered some relief.

Charon collapsed to one knee, his adrenaline effectively draining in a rush. Bile rose in the back of his throat as the scent of his own burning skin invaded his nasal passage. He swallowed back, chancing a glance down at his stomach as he slowly gathered his wits. The leather of his armor was charred, melting into the bubbling remnants of his flesh like some mockery of a skin graft.

He didn’t have time to wonder when Quinn had made it to his side. His arm was hoisted over the smaller man’s shoulders for support, though it did little to get him back on his feet.

“Fuck, man. C’mon, work with me.” Quinn shoved upwards with his knees, dragging Charon mostly upright.

“Inside…” Just working his mouth felt like he’d been walking for days without rest, but Charon grit his teeth and fought through the darkness encroaching the edges of his sight. “Grenades and...ammo.”

“Cocksuckers,” Quinn grumbled, leading Charon down the service tunnel he’d ducked into earlier. “Let’s get you patched up and get the hell back home.”

Home? 

Underworld.

“No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Quinn grunted, tugging him around a corner. “Where else are you gonna fucking go like this?”

Charon shook his head, body crying out in relief when Quinn finally dumped him within the tingling radius of a busted generator. The radiation soaked into him, a comforting wave gently crashing through the aches and pains as his skin greedily soaked it up.

“Viv…” He finally managed, closing his eyes as his flesh began to mend. The leather still embedded in the flesh would have to be removed later, but that was a problem for the future. He just needed to get back on his feet again.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me — your smoothskin is hundreds of miles away, Charon! There’s no way you’re going to make it with just some rad-treatment and happy thoughts.”

“If they betrayed us, then they’ve probably betrayed her. I have to — ”

“If they betrayed her, she’s dead already,” Quinn grimaced, clearly trying to make the statement as gently as he could. He seemed surprised when Charon only shook his head rather than lashing out.

“She’s still alive.”

“I’m not going to argue with an idiot. You can’t make the trip on your own, even you have to know that much.” Quinn sighed and sat with his back pressed against the wall. “We have bigger problems, anyway. When they don’t report back, their little group is going to know something went down.”

“Those weapons were meant for Underworld.” He’d had his suspicions, and the way those soldiers had open-fired on him only proved to Charon that he’d been right.

“That’s what I was thinkin’ too,” Quinn fished around in his vest pockets for his cigarettes, shaking his head to himself as he lit one up. “They’ll come after all of us. Slaughter all of us anyway. This feels like we’ve only delayed the inevitable.”

Charon pushed himself to sit up, feeling the strength return to his limbs as the worst of his injuries scarred over.

“So, where are you going with this?” He asked.

Quinn blew out a pillar of smoke.

“They can’t stay in Underworld. It’ll be like shooting radroaches in a barrel once those fucks decide that they're perfectly justified in wiping us all out.” He paused, holding the open pack of smokes toward Charon. “You want to go find Vivi? Fine. You can’t make the journey alone and Underworld can’t survive in the Capital Wasteland anymore. Help me get them out and we’ll all head to the Commonwealth together.”

Charon grimaced. Travelling with such a large group would definitely lengthen the journey by at least another week. He eyed the pack of cigarettes like a loaded gun — or a bribe, he realized.

“Where would they even go in the Commonwealth?” He asked.

“I know a place. Ghoul-friendly. I do trade with them whenever I’m in the area. Little town called Goodneighbor. Their mayor is one of us and as long as we can pull our weight, he won’t turn us away.”

Charon sighed. Quinn had a point, as much as his mind screamed to locate and protect Viv at all costs, finding her by himself would be virtually impossible. He knew she was still alive — he couldn’t explain how, but it was such a certain weight in his chest that he couldn’t question it if he wanted to. And Viv…Viv was a goddamn hero. If their positions were switched, she wouldn’t hesitate to lead the ghouls to safety.

There was no God to help him if she were to find out he’d left them all behind.

Forcing himself to his feet, Charon stalked over and snatched a cigarette from the pack.

“We’re taking the wagon with us,” he snapped, “we’re going to fucking need it.”

Quinn nodded, lighting Charon’s cigarette to seal the deal.

"Pleasure doin' business with you."


End file.
